


This Time, It Wasn't The End

by wirewrappedlily



Series: Hunters [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Author is a madwoman, Derek is a god, M/M, Mentions of past!Derek Hale/OC and Derek Hale/Kate Argent, Mentions of torture and PTSD, So very very AU, Stiles and Lydia are Indiana Jones and Laura Croft, don't ask just read it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-06
Updated: 2012-11-06
Packaged: 2017-11-18 02:44:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 55,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/556010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wirewrappedlily/pseuds/wirewrappedlily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Always there comes an hour when one is weary of one's work and devotion to duty, and all one craves for is a loved face, the warmth and wonder of a loving heart.” ― Albert Camus</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Time, It Wasn't The End

**Author's Note:**

> This story is dedicated to Autumn and my angel, Chelsea. Two muses without whom I would have given up and given in to the siren call of the delete button. This story has blood, sweat, and tears in it. Most of them mine. But, as always, my darlings: Enjoy.

It began with Lydia Martin falling in love with a god of sport instead of the sweet, wonderful partner in crime she'd had for years. 

No, it began with Lydia Martin mentioning she was interested in the old stories. 

Well, it really really began in third grade when Lydia Martin was perfection incarnate and Stiles Stilinski fell head over heels for her.

Really, in any case, it began with Lydia Martin. 

Lydia's flowing auburn hair was caught up in intricate, lazy ringlets with tiny white flowers, her backless, deep-purple dress clinging to her and floating just shy of touching her skin in a way only silk could. Her lips were glossed, her eyes awarded emphasis that night, as the smooth jazz carried over the club. The butterfly formed in silver and diamonds over her back, holding the silk together, glittered in the soft light, and there wasn't an eye that wasn't on her and her perfect skin. 

Jackson's hand slid over the small of her back, and Lydia gave a pained smile, shifting away to catch up with Stiles and leaning into his side. It was mean, yes; Stiles had no hope here, not really, and Lydia and he both knew that, but Jackson was being intolerable, as always, and she didn't want to have to put up with it just then. "If I just had my gun…" Lydia sighed into Stiles's ear, and he snorted lightly in response, taking a swill from his whiskey neat. 

"You do have your gun. You always have your gun. Hell, you sleep with your gun, which is why I wake you with loud noises from _far away_. You just don't want to shoot him because it would be a waste of bullets." 

Lydia shrugged in an entirely too fluid motion, glancing at Stiles smoothly in profile before looking to the stage as the songbird of the month trilled on, "Well, he _is_ a god." 

Stiles heaved a sigh, signalling for another whiskey and letting her take it from him, not even bothering to watch as she downed it in one go. Lydia knew he was wearing thin, but that was just pathetic. He was damn near lifeless like this, and with the war over and business booming for two treasure hunters with a speciality in the supernatural, he couldn't afford to be falling into ennui, it simply wouldn't do. "He is, yes." 

Lydia mocked him, heaving a sigh like he had and pouting, "Are you still sad because those nymphs didn't try to seduce you?" 

"My heart is marked...for someone...something...and it's a strong enough bond to scare off a bunch of nymphs." 

"So?" Lydia prompted, intercepting another whiskey and splashing this one in Jackson's face to ward him off again. 

"So why the hell hasn't it happened, if the bond is so damn strong?"

Lydia's breath caught a little. A broken sigh of 'what if no one ever loves me?' while she'd been in a fever hot enough to kill, and Stiles's lips had pressed to her forehead, apologies falling from his lips as he'd administered the antidote that hurt more than the slow death had. He'd been there, he'd saved her; he'd loved her. And they both knew she couldn't give him that. "Maybe it _has_ happened." She offered, shrugging. She elbowed him lightly, flashing a grin that he'd've wrote home about once upon a time, "Maybe it was that vampire in Bulgaria that tried to make you his princess of darkness!" 

"You are a wicked and hateful creature and we both promised never to speak of that again." Stiles growled, taking another long draught to cover his grin. The amusement in his eyes was there and gone far too quickly, but he was at least slightly more alive. Lydia slipped his arm around her waist, leading him out onto the dancefloor and yanking him into a slow sway, laying her head on his shoulder. 

"You will be loved, Stilinski. I will scour this earth until I find someone worthy and then you'll live happily ever after." 

"You sure Jackson's worthy of you, Martin?" Stiles asked balefully, his eyes on the god fuming on the sidelines. 

"Sometimes. For Jackson and me, it's not about him being worthy, though. He loves me, and he and I...we're meant to be together." Lydia sighed, smiling as Stiles did a quirky little step change, goofing off to make her laugh. "I do love you, Stilinski, and you are loved. Your dad, the McCalls...we all love you."

Stiles pulled a grossed out face, "I don't want to think there. Just. No." 

"So it's not Scott if you have already met your one true love." Lydia laughed. 

Stiles did a full-body shudder of disgust, "That's gross. You're just, you're being gross." He whined, laughing with her as he pulled her into a spin and dipped her with a lot less trouble than he would've had pulling off that move years ago. She beamed up at him, and he smirked sadly down at her. 

Yeah, it was time for Lydia to find someone else for Stiles to love. Someone who'd love him back.

~

Jackson got back in her good books with a little sugar and a promise of story time while he carefully painted her toe nails blood red, the both of them clad only in silk sheets. 

"There was a story I heard once...before my time...about the son of The Morrigan and Ares. His name was Derek; a god half-man, half-wolf, and able to change his form at will. His parents despised each other, though; their weakness was love, but there was no love in the conception of Derek. 

"It was prophesized when he was born that Derek would find strength and greatness in his parents' weakness. His parents, appalled that he would overstep them, strove to break Derek, to make it impossible for him to fall in love. He lived a dark and hate-filled life of fire and torment; not even told his destiny, for fear it would bring him hope. He was let out eventually, hardened and mistrustful, a grouch through and through," Jackson kissed her ankle, but Lydia hummed in the negative, too enthralled with the story, so he sighed and continued, "he was travelling through Greece when he saw the boy. Pale and lithe and far too clever, speaking the language of his mother's people. He fell in love with the boy instantly, and watched as he was immediately sold into slavery. 

"With no one to believe in him, Derek was only a god by blood, his power diminished and his respect non-existent. Left with no other option, Derek used what power he had to become invisible to all but the boy. In order to save the boy, Derek was forced to allow him to go into battle, and it was then that Aphrodite, Ares's real love, took pity on their plight, offering a way to combine the spirit of the god in the body of the man, giving the boy Derek's strength and his fire, and the boy's own cunning and wit. For a long time, the two of them worked well together...but Ares discovered the trick, and brought it to light, posing as a fellow warrior and bringing down curses on the boy and Derek both. They were sentenced to die--" 

"But gods don't die." Lydia whimpered, her features a mask of tragedy. 

Jackson smiled at her, taking her hand, and kissing the inside of her knee, "No, we don't. Derek was locked away, deep in the ruins of a city underground, a place fraught with horror and disease that no one dared to enter, locked in the dark with the wolf pulled from his very body, a monstrous beast he couldn't control that was sent to hunt his lover in the darkness, if the disease didn't take him first." Lydia kicked him in the shoulder, looking thunderous, and Jackson held up his hands defensively, "But it's said that his lover will be reborn, and will free him." Lydia was up and out of the bed, storming across the room to her clothes in a heartbeat. "What are---"

"His lover. It's Stiles. Stiles is the boy, reborn, that's why he has a bond---"

"Look, Stiles is an old soul, but---"

"Jackson, darling, find me literature on this, engravings, something, and then you can tell me Stiles isn't the boy, because it sounds to me like he's destined for falling in love with one of you prigs, and my gut is screaming right now." Throwing a sultry smile at her lover, Lydia swayed her hips out of their rooms, picking the lock on Stiles's down the hall with the ease of someone who did it far too often for propriety. 

Lydia pushed the door open before standing, coming nose to fly with a half-dressed Stiles Stilinski, glower in place. "Can I help you, _Lady_ Martin?" 

Lydia winced, but stood and pushed her way into his rooms, taking stock of his state of undress. 

Stiles's wild hair was sneaking free of the confines of pomade, a wild, tangled-looking mess that Lydia knew was actually softer than hers; his collar was gone, his undershirt showing the clean definition of his life of adventure more than anything else he wore; his suspenders hung around his legs uselessly, and his feet were bare. All in all, he was gorgeous; but she'd seen that boy naked as well, and that was more something to write home about than this state of dishevelment ever would be. "No, no, please, Lydia, come in at three in the morning while you reek of Jackson's cologne and...nail laquer?" They both looked at her own bare feet, and Stiles groaned, "That is more about your lovelife than I wanted to know without being a part of it." 

"He has steady hands!" Lydia defended for a distracted minute before getting it back together, "But that's neither here nor there. Get your things, Stilinski: we're going to Greece." 

"We just got back from Budapest!" 

"We can pick up Scott in Ireland on the way…" 

"He's visiting his mother!" 

"I'm trying to free an ancient god trapped in a city of the dead with a hideous beast that is actually a torn out part of him!" 

Stiles's brow furrowed, his mouth turning down on one side and pulling in on the other as he squinted at her, crossing his arms over his chest and shifting his weight to one foot. "What the hell is the play here? You love the glory, don't get me wrong, but the gods _hate it_ when we let word get out that they're even remotely real." 

"The Ruby of Helen." Jackson piped up, looking more artfully dishevelled, purposefully mouthwatering. Lydia couldn't help but be thankful he's stepping in here, because she should have known her partner wouldn't follow her quietly into a future of wedded bliss and orgasms. "Helen of Troy wore a tear-shaped ruby said to be hexed only to be worn by the most beautiful woman in all of creation. Helen also had a map of the city, given to her by Aphrodite herself, and that map will lead us to the lost city and Derek." 

At the sound of the name, Stiles visibly flinched, and Jackson and Lydia threw matching looks to each other, "One week. We will stay here, where we are meant to be, for one week. In that time, I will visit my father; you will look after the company, and Jackson can see who else he can cheat on you with. Scott will not get a call telling him to get to Greece so that he is there before we are: we will go to Ireland, as you said, and I will see Melissa while you find some stupid, blue-eyed Irishman to get back at Jackson with. Then, while you two are still rage-screwing each other, we will go to Greece, find the ruby, the city, save this god person, and not get killed doing it. I don't care what either of you say, leave now." 

Stiles, of course, finds himself on a less-than-pleasure cruise for Ireland after three days. Lydia refused to be apologetic, because Stiles was going to be forced to face his grandparents sooner or later, and the less he did that, the better for all involved. 

Stiles dragged out his old deck of tarot cards, the boxed edges and the familiar illustrations a comfort as he idly shuffled and reshuffled them, wishing not for the first time that he could read his own fortune. Lydia flounced into the chair opposite, bedecked in her adventuring best, minus about half of her usual arsenal. She frowned, knowing what the restless movement meant, and she sighed, fixing him with a look that spoke volumes and leaning back in her chair to wait it out until he started talking. He didn't start talking, however. An hour passed, then two, and his movements simply got twitchier, his eyes fixed solely on the cards as if nothing else existed, and Lydia was beginning to get the feeling that there was something going on inside him that even she couldn't deal with. "Mama Louisa told you you couldn't read your own cards, right? That it's some kind of bad juju?" Stiles grunted affirmative, and Lydia's heart completely plummeted. He'd never been this silent, even when a pixie had literally stolen his voice. "What is it about this go around, Stiles?" 

"Just leave me be, Lyds. I need you to leave me be right now." 

Lydia's breath caught, her throat tightening painfully at the pale, gaunt look to his features, at the emptiness in his eyes. He _hated_ being alone more than anything. 

Lydia silently stood, turning from the little table he was seated at and calmly walking away. Jackson was waiting in the shadows, his eyes flashing their unearthly blue as the light hit them at the correct angle, "He went to see a psychic." Jackson informed her, his godliness shining through too heavily for her to be able to stand being around him, "She told him he was an old soul; and that he was headed down a path of destruction and chaos, that everything in his world would break and change in the mending." 

"Was she _trying_ to get him killed?" Lydia demanded, enraged that someone had doled out such a fortune for her little Stilinski. 

"I believe so, yes." Jackson told her simply, "She was an Argent, I think." 

Lydia looked up sharply, her eyes flashing dangerously; a look that had brought ancient curses and beings more powerful than a human would ever know fixing on her lover, " _Which Argent_?" 

Jackson smirked, proud of her acuity, "The very one that locked Derek into the underground. Katarina---Kate, now." 

Lydia's features closed off, deadly and fierce and in complete control. "I'd like to see her try to get near my Stiles. _I'll rip her head off_."

Jackson shrugged indulgently, leaving it to her. "The literature you asked of me is waiting in your rooms. If I may: Stiles is usually happiest with his nose in a book. Leave the reading to him, let him work through and find the rhythm of the story, and we both know he'll lose this discontent." 

Lydia played into his coaxing arms, her lips right against his, almost but not quite a kiss before she smiled as sharp and ruthlessly as a blade, "Oh, my dear, I _would_...but you still smell like that little slut, and my dear boy's never betrayed me like you have." 

"And he's never loved you like I have, either." Jackson snapped, his eyes flashing again as she pulled away, swaying her hips, "I've given you---"

"I had everything to start with, you cad. Go get one of your French girls to spread their thighs for you. I've a headache, and you're no cure." Her tumble of flawless curls tossed as she turned and strut away, almost hitting him across the face. "Do you ever get tired of being right?" Lydia sniped, and Stiles's empty eyes flashed in amusement for a bare moment. 

"Jackson?" 

"You're the root of all evil and you see things before they happen. I think you're a witch, I really do." 

Stiles snorted, "I'd want better powers than being able to tell you your boytoy was going to cheat on you. Again." 

"Shut up. There's research to be done." Lydia swept up the cards in one hand, turning tail and strutting into the tiny cabin they shared, trailing him after her as she knew he would. Stiles threw himself into the research with a zealotry that was almost self-destructive, and by the fifth day of tossing oceans and Stiles's curled up, too-skinny form in his bottom bunk, hunkered over a book as he tried not to be sick again, Lydia was honestly fearing for his safety. 

Stiles was grey, worse than that time with the flesh-eating mummy bite whose cure was a hallucinogen that turned Lydia into a screaming purple parrot and his pillow into a fluffy monster with talons and his bed into a gaping maw about to swallow him. That had been the least-fun twenty-four hours of babysitting Lydia had ever done, and she'd been there for the first time Scott had gotten his stupid ass shot. Stiles had to be painfully hungry, his stomach eating itself from the inside out and his body so weak she didn't know how he was managing to lift his arms to switch books. Eventually, Lydia just cuddled up behind him in bed, yanking him into her arms and curling up around him, "Stiles Elizabeth Stilinski---"

"That is in no way my middle name." 

"---You need to get out of this, my darling boy. You need to _try_. Your father will shoot me if I let anything happen to you---"

"Oh, please, he loves you more than I do." 

"---And I dislike having bullet holes in my blouses. So you need to drink this, and you need to come up for some fresh air, and you need to see if you can eat something, okay?" 

"Either you're going soft in your old age, or I'm actually dying...fine, I'll...just fine." 

"If you were dying, we both know I'd be a lot more forceful and a lot less cuddly." She teased, kissing his jaw right where she'd decked him last time she thought he was dying on her. "Do you need help?" 

He shook his head, kissing her forehead, "No." 

"Are you going to keep being mopey?" 

"No. And you're not allowed to set me up with Derek, either. I know that's why we're going after him. And I know that I look like those engravings of the boy, but...I've been in love with you my whole damn life, Lyds. I'm your partner in crime---"

"You're my best friend." 

"---And I don't need more than that. Maybe I shouldn't want more than that. 'Cause it's more than I ever thought I'd have." Lydia made a broken sound, nuzzling into him, "So when we save Derek, because no one deserves a fate like that, you're not going to try to force us together. He was forced to listen to his lover die. That was probably the last input he's had in thousands of years. Tell me you won't push." 

Lydia sighed, tugging her fingers through Stiles's hair, "You deserve to have more than just an awe-inspiring best friend, even if that best friend is me." Stiles snorted and Lydia grinned, running her thumb over the cut of his cheek, remembering the night she'd realized he was really her knight in shining armour, a companion that went beyond lust and went straight for truth and trust that wouldn't be broken. It was really too bad that she'd have to break both to get the self-destructive bastard to have a chance at being happy. 

"I do notice you not agreeing to my conditions, but since you owe me for Bengal, we're going to act as if that's an agreement." 

Lydia grit her teeth, resolving to save his ass at least thrice before they'd be even once more and she'd be allowed to mettle as much as she wanted to. Lydia pressed a kiss to his cheek, standing and slipping from the room for the kitchens, conjuring up something edible that would stay in Stiles's stomach with any luck. Memories of the night Stiles and she became what they were always meant to be for each other sparked to life as the flame did. That night, with a ball that her guardians had set her up to find a suitor on. Stiles in his tux, hair still shorn off from having been captured and tortured in the war. He'd looked over at her, and it'd been a kick in the chest, because she'd seen those eyes in periphery all her life, but she'd never taken the time to see them. Stiles had saved her life that night. Her guardians and a destitute earl would've seen her robbed and left for dead. And Stiles...Stiles had run to her, screaming, the war flashing in his eyes even as he wrested the gun from her almost-mother's hand and took out her would-be-husband with a punch. Lydia had never felt safer than she had when he'd bent over her, pushing her hair back with a kind of love she'd never be able to reciprocate. She'd asked Stiles in the hospital---because he'd come to her, every day---if he'd be her guardian angel. If he'd travel with her for this life of adventure she'd always wanted and never had. He'd told her she needn't have asked. 

The scars of the war seemed to have faded, but she still knew, sometimes, that he carried more of it with him than she could even imagine. 

They'd travelled through warzones, and taken part in skirmishes and battles that had brought out the hard, unyielding steel in his eyes, and she'd seen him smattered in blood, smudged over with soot, and half-feral in the heat of battle. She'd seen him reign it in, too. Seen him knelt by the sides of fallen friends; seen him desperately holding in the very organs of young men too green to have gone out, willing them to keep breathing. Lydia, of all people, knew how beautiful Stiles could be. He and the rest of the world just needed to see it. 

Armed with soup and renewed vigor in her fight to keep his ass alive, Lydia returned to their bunk, finding him slumped down against the end of the beds, face pale and hands trembling. "I fucking hate sea travel." Lydia swore with both malice and venom, her green eyes flashing as she hefted the soup tray onto one hip and Stiles under the freed arm, moving him down into the bottom of his bottom bunk and reaching up to steady him even as he swayed. Stiles was a fighter just as much as he was a scholar, but the boy had been broken too young, and there was no real way for him to fix himself into the swagger and brash of the men that entered and exited their lives, usually with gunfire and explosives. Lydia would never not be grateful he wasn't like them. 

Stiles offered a weak approximation of a smile, shaking his head gently, "You hate sea travel because I hate sea travel." He groaned out, resting back against the posts holding her bunk above his as she pushed at his shoulders to get him into a position where he wouldn't fall over. 

"Yes, well, we're getting a dirigible if you have to teach me how to pilot it myself." Stiles barked a laugh, taking the soup and sipping it slowly. "So, tell me what we've learned while starving ourselves." 

Lydia draped herself down over the other half of the bed, thankful that Stiles was compact, though his broad shoulders had been utilized as her pillow more than once. "Judging by the engravings, Derek could shape-shift into the beast, but unlike his mother, he didn't deign to look like an almost-normal wolf. Derek was huge, and if these journals are anything to go by, he was magnificent. Stories of a wolf the colour of the Great Storm with eyes as blue as the sky ranged over most of the European countryside, and reports of other wolves like him---I think, maybe, a pack that The Morrigan would've given her son---may be the origins of the Hellhounds and Black Dog myths, less than The Morrigan was herself. Derek and his pack were invaluable to some of the more peaceful communities. They seemed to act as mercenaries after a fashion, protecting small villages and communities from the more hell-bent warlords trying to tear through the countryside." Stiles pulled over a heavy, leather-bound book, flipping through the pages until he'd found a rendering of the hero of the people; black hair and dark skin and bladelike features that were inhumanly perfect. 

"Oh, sweetheart, I could find so many uses for a face like that…" Lydia sighed, biting her lower lip for extra emphasis, and Stiles groaned, rubbing his face in the oft-used rub of the victims of headache. 

"I _hate_ you." 

"No, you don't. You love me, you always have. Now, tell me more about our wolf-boy and his band of merry men." 

"Not just men. Derek didn't discriminate when it came to packmates." Stiles took a deep breath, and Lydia had heard him trying to breathe around a bullet hole and afflicted with the rambling wheeze of someone this close to dying, but the rattle of his lungs now did not bode well. "It's said that there was a female wolf that he treated like his equal or greater, which is why it's so odd that he fell for the boy in Greece, but I don't think she was his mate. I think she was his older sister." 

Lydia bristled, the promise of a possible ally tempting, "Biologically?" 

"Not completely, I don't think, but enough that she should still be alive." Stiles told her, but he was lacking the proper glee of someone who has an in to finding their treasure. 

"What's the catch?" 

"She's Derek's sister, they were close, and she hasn't made inroads to finding him, if there is a him to find, and if he hasn't already been found. There's nothing anywhere about her having looked, and nothing about her having even been around during Greece and his persecution." 

"You think…"

"I think she's imprisoned or dead." 

Lydia immediately went to argue, but Stiles held his hands up, "If she were only half-god, and half-mortal, she could still be killed. I think that that might've been why Derek was in Greece at all. He liked the wilder parts of what's now Britain, not the city or the culture of Greece at the time." 

"Why would he be there if she'd been killed?" 

"Well, that's where the story turns more into wild conjecture and gut feeling. Prepared?" 

"Always." Lydia replied, shifting to lean against his side more. He was burning to the touch, and she figured Jackson would tell her he smelt like death if he was here, because Stiles had to be getting sick worse than just the seasickness. 

"Well, I think that before most of this, as an added slight to take away Derek's chances of love and happiness, I think they gave him a family, like the ones he was protecting later on." Lydia starts cringing, and he nods in response, "I think that he and Laura were together before the pack started to be notable. I think they were a family, and I think someone was sent to kill their family, which drove them to almost overzealous protection of the small, peaceful communities around them." 

"Ew. I reiterate my hatred of the Old Ones. They are dicks." 

Stiles tucked his mouth closed and didn't say that Jackson was also a dick. This conveniently meant that she couldn't hit him because he'd thought it. "I think she was looking for the person who'd been sent to kill their family, and I think she was killed for her troubles." 

"And Ares loved to use the same hands for his dirty work, so you think this person would've been involved in Derek's capture as well, don't you." 

"Get out of my head." 

"Close the door behind me." She scoffed. She bonked her shoulder against his, grinning at him until he laughed, laying his head down against her shoulder, "From the sounds of things, my darling, he's fantastic." She told him, interlocking their hands. 

"No setting me up." Stiles grumbled, eyelashes two dark smudges on his cheekbones.

Lydia kissed his temple, laying him carefully down against the bed, "As you wish, love." She breathed, finagling until he was wrapped up in the sheet and his head was more or less on the pillow that she'd prised from under his feet. 

Lydia was halfway up to the bridge before Jackson appeared, his eyes wild and worried, "You smell that?" He demanded, grabbing her arms. 

Lydia wondered for all of five seconds if Stiles's sick-smell had really rubbed off on her that much, and then the scent Jackson was talking about hit her nose. Lydia's eyes went wide, her heart stuttering in her chest. "A Triangle!" Whirling and sprinting back for their rooms, the scent of methane made her want to choke. All over the ship, alarms began to blare, and Lydia's crashing through the door to their bunk had Stiles rousing muzzily. "Stiles, a Triangle's forming, the ship's going down!" 

"The fuck?!" Stiles swore viciously, pulling himself up with the strength of the adrenaline-enhanced and blinking stars out of his line of vision, she could tell. 

"Smell the air, the methane's climbed like mad, this is an attack." Lydia grit out, laying out Stiles's supply kit and choosing which of the supplies she'd need, "Something's trying to get us either vortexed out of this plane of existence, or get us drowned in the aftermath." 

"Lydia, I'm not well enough to summon the power to stop it, and you're not used to this kind of magic. It'll eat you alive. No. We're gonna seal the room, and we'll do an in-and-out." 

"Last time we let a vortex eat us and spit us back out, we ended up missing a month and a half of our lives!" Lydia shrieked, eyes wild. 

"Yes, because things that are lost and have been lost for thousands of years are really so very pressing for us to find them that I should let the magic eat me!" Stiles snapped, and Lydia took a step back, her heart almost stopping. Lydia went silent, doing exactly as he'd shown her to do, and radiating apology in the meantime. "I want to get there as much as you do, Lydia, but we need to get there together and alive." 

Lydia and he met in the middle of the room, and she threw her arms around him, burying her head down against his shoulder as he held her tight. The groaning crash and shrieking rending of metal followed by the hiss and bang of water flooding into the lower decks, and Stiles wrapped his arms around her as tightly as he could, eyes on the door. Lydia closed her eyes against the blinding, shrieking flash of white, and couldn't see when her eyes reopened. " _Stiles_?" 

The high, panicked cry of her voice had his arms tightening around her, and they breathed in the dead, stale air. Lydia could feel his head moving, trying to find a point of light where there was none in the darkness, "It's going to slingshot us back in a few seconds, Lyds, just hold on." 

At the sound of his voice, a growl erupted in the deep, and the rattle of chains against stone. Stiles seized her tighter, and it was like getting kicked in the stomach, the punch of being snapped back through time and space from where the vortex had landed them. 

The room was submerged: the whole ship was submerged, officers flash-frozen mid-step from the force of the magic, and Lydia had to blast their way through each door, their pockets of air running thin. There was no telling how long they'd been gone from their world, or where they'd been thrown to. The only thing that could survive magic like a Triangle was more magic, and though Lydia was good at the darker arts, that wouldn't have helped save the ship. Stiles was the one with belief; with power in his imagination and strength in his kindness. He was the one that had had the magic to save them in the Bermuda Triangle, though it'd nearly killed him to use so much of his power. Lydia should have remembered that, and she should have known. As it was, Stiles was fading, his movements hopelessly slowing, and they wouldn't break surface much less keep afloat with him like this. Lydia wanted to scream, but she had to _try_. Lydia grabbed Stiles's arms, kicking her way upwards and dragging him with her. There was no telling how close they were to the surface before her strength began to wane. A rippling cloud of pink-purple magic bubbled up from the wreckage beneath them, swallowing the both of them into a massive room full of treasure. And, thankfully, air. The walls glittered with the pink-purple hue of the cloud, and more wealth than El Dorado glittered in the half-light. Stiles fell to his knees, his head falling against her shoulder, his face in her throat, and he coughed water weakly up, his limbs shaking. Lydia pulled him around and laid him out more comfortably, holding on tight and rocking his unconscious body in her arms. 

With a small rushing sound, their kits fell from thin air, clattering onto the marble they laid on. "What is this?" Lydia breathed, staring around them. 

With a mechanical whine, a flickering image of an older man appeared, "You can call me Deaton. I'm a by product of the magic it takes to create the vortex you slipped in and out of, and the magic it took to allow you to slip. Now, it's not often we see a pair of soulmates in the world who have true loves that aren't each other. For that, you have my service." He smiled at them, and Lydia felt a bloom of warm hope, sighing in relief. "Now, normally, I end up where the vortex spits you out. With you two, though, you slipped me back through with you, and for that, you have my undying gratitude." Lydia smiled at him, "Now, your friend there isn't in the best way. I'm made up, partly of magic, but also partly of all the technology in every world I've ever been in, and from what my instruments are picking up, he's contracted some form of plague that hasn't been seen in a very long time." 

Lydia ran her fingers through the back of Stiles's hair, "I-I don't know if you'd even know this, but is there a cure?" 

Deaton smiled at her again, and Lydia felt a spike of desperation lance through her, "Treasure isn't simply gold, Lady Martin; it's knowledge, too. No, there is no cure and there never has been. However, since this disease died so long ago, I can only assume that there is magic involved in his having contracted it." 

Lydia paled, her eyes going saucer-wide, "M-Magic? ...We've been trying to find a god, Derek---"

"Derek Hale?" Deaton stood straighter, "The magic infecting your friend, it can be undone, then." 

"Undone by getting him to Derek?" 

"Yes." Deaton laughed, "You've already figured it out, then?" 

"He refuses to admit it." 

He chuckled, and Stiles moaned pitifully, "Well, to Greece we go?" 

"Ireland, please." The room rippled around them, fading out at the edges, leaving them sitting curled around each other on the windy Irish coast, a blob of pink-purple glimmer floating down to her side. "Thank you." She sighed, tears in her eyes. Yelling began down the coastline, and she whipped her head around to watch as Scott and Melissa McCall began to sprint towards them. "Stiles needs help! We need to get him to Grams." 

"Our car is up the hill," Melissa told her breathlessly, "Scott, you'll have to carry him." 

Scott took Stiles from her arms, the young boy grunting softly under the weight of his best friend, Lydia helping him arrange Stiles's deadweight more easily over his shoulders, "He's burning!" Scott startled, desperation tightening his grip on Stiles even more. Lydia and ran as fast as she could for the car, getting it started before Scott could reach the top of the hill and helping Melissa and Scott get Stiles into the vehicle. Melissa drove madly, and getting Stiles out of the car was actually more difficult than it had been to get him in. "What's happening, and what is your pink, shimmery shadow?!"

"Grams should be able to bring his fever down." Melissa breathed, tucking his head against Scott's neck before his head could bash itself on the door. Scott carried him into the sprawling house for the lighthouse's keeper, the aged stained glass and oak door swinging open before they reached it. Scott laid Stiles over the counter in the conservatory attached to the kitchen, Grams bustling in with a twinkle in her eye and a look of determination that had gotten most of her bloodline into trouble before her. 

"You're going to have to hurry to get him where he needs to go, Lydia." Grams intoned, her voice smooth and honeyed. 

"How do you already know what's going on?! I don't even know what's going on yet!" Scott blurted, Grams cackling and Melissa and Lydia snorting into laughter, breaking the painful tension. 

"You never know what's going on, do you?" Deaton rumbled with a chuckle. Grams's cackle turned into a giggle, girlish and turning her instantly into a younger version of herself, giddy and bright. Lydia tilted his head back, Melissa parting his lips for Grams to pour a small bottle of rose-coloured liquid down his throat. Stiles swallowed slowly, and whined in the back of his throat, his eyelashes fluttering. Lydia took a handful of the powder Grams handed to her, smudging a dash over each eye with her thumb before pressing a kiss to his forehead for good luck. A small smile tweaked at Stiles's lips, his eyelashes fluttering open. Dark amber eyes rolled up to look at her, and he grinned like the devil. 

"I swear, if you caught a dead strain of plague just to get to use my breasts as a pillow, I will shoot you. In the ass. Again." 

"You love my ass. Don't shoot my ass." Stiles groaned, "Plague? ...I really fucking dislike the sound of this." 

"Lydia, you'll have to administer what I just gave him every night until you can find the…uh…cure." Stiles shot a look at Grams, squinting suspiciously. Grams put on an innocent face, and Stiles groaned again, biting down on his bottom lip, wrinkling his nose. "Oh, stop it, boy. Let things be, the both of you." Grams waved them off, dismissing it with the clear knowledge that they wouldn't press, because _no one_ pressed with Grams. 

"You're lucky you're pretty." Stiles groaned, "So, how long were we in the vortex?" Lydia pressed her palm against his forehead, feeling the heat actually lessen against her hand. 

"Flattery, my boy, will get you everywhere. And you were in the vortex for less than three seconds, it wasn't a significant amount of time." 

"Vortex? You guys got hit with a vortex?" 

"Someone constructed a Triangle, only they did it properly and the targets went through they just came right back out, satisfying the parameters of the Triangle." 

"The person who put up the Bermuda was an idiot." Lydia sighed, high and regal. 

"If it makes you feel any better, he died in having conjured it." Deaton offered. 

Lydia snorted a noise of derision, "Called it." She chirped, swaying her hips as she walked to the kitchen, "Now, Grams, Stiles has been down in the dumps. Comfort food is totally in order." 

Grams grinned, rubbing his cheek with the backs of her fingers, "I agree. Scott, help him down and let's get him set up in the atrium. Melissa, if you'd be so kind, I think some of your sinfully good chocolate cake is in order." 

Stiles lets the mothering settle over him like a good quilt, Deaton hovering over his shoulder as Scott got him set up, "So I'm pretty sure I have no idea what you are." Stiles tells him, and Deaton's shimmer goes slightly golden with a sound like a laugh. 

"He's a thief, of sorts. And a library or a treasury. Really, he's a construct made for preserving things that would otherwise be lost." Grams informs him, bustling in with hot cocoa that's really more melted chocolate than anything else, and cookies. "He's a gem, really, and he'll take good care of you both if you take care of him. Won't you, Deaton?" 

"Grams, I've known you for a decade and fifty-eight life-threatening situations in which you've saved me from dying. That you know everything is still creepy." 

Grams cackled, planting a purposefully sloppy kiss on his forehead before she rejoined Lydia and Melissa in the kitchen. 

"Please tell me you're not letting Lady Martin make anything besides soup. She can make soup and it's edible, but beyond that she is useless." Scott whispered fervently before ducking into the kitchen to scope it out; knowing full well if Lydia heard him, he'd be gutted, but knowing, too, that eating anything other than soup from her leads to a fate worse than death. Lydia, of course, could guess what he'd prayed for, and hit him for it anyway. Melissa laughed softly, and Grams snickered, shaking her head, but Lydia went back to her soup, keeping an eye on Stiles as he settled down in his little nest and closed his eyes to Deaton telling him a story involving a police box, the god Chronos, a Hunter named Dean Winchester being thrown through time, and something called a Dalek. Stiles was laughing softly, she could see, and it made her feel so much better. 

"You know, I think part of why he's so reticent is the problems you've had with Jackson over the years." Grams told her conversationally, "The boy's seen love nearly kill those he's loved. He may not have much of a self-preservation instinct, but I think he's determined not to lose himself to love so easily as to actually be lost. Being in love with you is safe, dear. But if he could have anyone else, someone especially made for him, someone he was made for...my darling, it'd break him to lose." Grams heaved a sigh, sadness shining in her eyes. Lydia watched Stiles, thinking back on all that he'd done and seen and been through. His father was by no means one of the gunfire-men they'd seen in the past; his father was accepting and he'd tried when his wife had passed with his son only at the age of nine. Stiles had grown with love and care that came from a man who didn't see the world as others had seen it, and didn't let it harden him. Stiles was the same, just stronger. Freer. More impossibly determined not to be beaten; not to lose. Lydia knew in minutiae of detail how easily he could be broken under the weight of losing someone he honestly loved; someone he could give it all to, not just an idea, as she was, or a friend, as the McCalls were. Stiles would change under that weight, if he wouldn't shatter completely. 

"Will it work out, Grams?" 

"Sweetpea, you know I can't tell you that." Grams swept her hair back, kissing her forehead briefly. Lydia felt certainty and warmth fill her chest, and knew from the twinkle in the old woman's eye that they'd pull through, even if it wasn't perfectly. 

Stiles loved Ireland for the feeling of being at home that the rolling hills and the greenery brought him; Lydia loved it for the flights of fancy and the raucous, wild Irishmen. Jackson appeared by the morning, and she just moved over in bed, letting him lay down and make sure she was intact. She wasn't even awake, but she knew he needed it. 

Deaton had "eaten" the books and tomes Jackson had compiled, slowly piling them back in the atrium for Stiles to peruse as he tried to recall anything that would help with the search for more information, confirming the bits and pieces Stiles had guessed at as well as attributing some of his own. 

Before long, Scott, Lydia, and Stiles stood atop a hill, the sharp wind stinging at their cheeks as the thick woolen sweaters Grams had outfitted for them kept the cold at bay. The Hale clan's castle was a charred and ruined husk; and Stiles felt tears stinging at his eyes, just thinking of the screams and pain of those that had died in the inferno, innocents all of them. Wrath curled in his belly, and rage, and Lydia could only reach over, taking his hand in hers, letting him know he would never be alone in this.

The three of them scrabbled over the ruins, Deaton's description of the libraries and histories stored in the walls burned in the back of Stiles's mind. Some of them Deaton and others like him had been able to swallow; some lost to the flames before any other creature could react. 

Stiles found a worn and scorched music box amongst the debris of a wall that had collapsed: hidden from the elements by the rubble and kept from being crushed, even after centuries, by a support beam run over with moss. He could smell the magic in the air, the pull of something powerful in the ruins of lives here, something that was pointing him onwards as if he could choose, anymore, to go back. Stiles couldn't open it, was almost afraid to really try for the fragility of the thing, and Lydia thought it wouldn't work anyway, but in the warmth of the Manor, the box sprung open to Stiles's hand and began to play a sweet, sad song that brought tears anew to Stiles's eyes. Lydia knew why: his mother had sung that song, and some nights it was the only thing Lydia could offer to keep the panic of battle and the rattle of Stiles's ghosts away. 

When the time came for Stiles, Scott, and Lydia to make their way to Greece, Deaton in-tow, Jackson appeared with a team to solve all of their problems: Adrian Harris, Camden and Isaac Lahey, and Danny Mahealani his proposed group of "archeologists". Isaac wasn't there so much because of his value in the field as he was because his father was a brute and a swine, and Lydia and Stiles closed ranks around the boy quickly, agreeing to the less-than-stellar prospects of Harris and the elder Lahey only to keep the boy under their wing and protected. Danny, they both knew and loved; he worked at the Pennybaker Club as a pianist before he'd been pulled into their life of intrigue, and he could handle Jackson more than Lydia could some days, in all honestly. But it was horrifying to her, even if she had to keep her peace in order to make sure nothing terrible happened to Isaac for as long as they could protect him, watching as Harris took shot after shot at Stiles. His intelligence, his manliness, his bravery. Stiles's magic-induced disease had him weakened, and his hyperactive, twitchy state that had swallowed him whole after the war made it harder than usual, while weak, for him to focus. Stiles withdrew further and further into himself the closer they came to Greece, and Lydia wanted to scream. 

Lydia loved Greece for it all; she loved the people, the food, and the place itself, history flowing with ingenuity. Stiles loved it for the food and the stories, and he just got lost in the books again, ones given him by Deaton, and by the old monks of near the town the Hales had once lived in. They travelled along the route Derek and his pack had taken, finding vestiges, old legends, and clues the whole way through until they reached the once-bustling acropolis, now sleepy little city. Lydia lounged, watching over Scott and Isaac as they played, similarly young, amongst the olive trees, Stiles sitting against the side of her sun chair with a book in his hands and Danny marshalling Jackson and the two people who could drive Lydia to murder away from those they'd abuse. Sometimes Lydia wondered if she didn't love Jackson solely because he was the closest she could come to Danny. 

Stiles hummed at her absently as she pulled her fingers through his hair, subtly checking his temperature as she did so and letting him lean into her hand if she paused for too long. Lydia felt the sun sink through into her bones, dozing lightly with the complete confidence that Stiles would wake her before she burned, no matter how hopeless he was with his own translucent skin. "What are we learning, love?" She asked on a sigh, tilting her head back for a more comfortable angle. 

"I want him saved. The more I read, the more I'm pissed." Lydia leaned down, scooping her arms around Stiles's upper body, tucking her chin against his shoulder and staring over his shoulder at the engraving spread over the ancient paper in faded pigment. Lydia began to trace old lines and patterns over Stiles's arm and shoulders, where woad lines had once stood blue against the pale, creamy skin as they'd prepared for a battle in the Highlands. Lydia kissed his temple, tracing swirls and lines of colour that had long-since faded, "Yes, I still have the scar from that spear on my thigh. Stop mothering me, you're only allowed to mother me after the sun goes down." Stiles swatted at her, and Lydia stuck her tongue out petulantly. 

"I will mother whenever I damn well please, Stiles." Lydia tugged on his hair lightly, "You are covered in scars, Stiles. Why are you covered in scars?" 

"Think about my life, Lydia. Think about how I live my life. I get shot, stabbed, hit, tortured---"

"Stop, before I find a pillow-padded room and never let you out of it." Lydia growled, hugging him until he squawked, half-choked. "Why do you follow me into these crazy situations?" 

"Because. You and Scott are my best friends. And I can't let you go it alone. I won't. If I can protect you two even a little, I will." Stiles's clever, long fingers played over her forearm around his chest, his head leaned back into the crook of her shoulder. It was simple and easy, and it always had been. "We need to find a lead, Lyds. The Ruby of Helen has been lost for centuries, millennia, actually, and it's the only lead we have for the map to this lost city." Lydia hushed him quietly, reaching to stroke his hair, "How do we do this, Lyds?"

"The answer will come, Stiles. It always does." Lydia pressed a kiss to his temple again, relaxing back into place sprawled over her sun chair, keeping her arm wrapped around his shoulders. 

Lydia was dressed in a white linen sun dress, her hair caught up under her sun hat, and her tinted specs on her nose as she walked down the main street, trailing Stiles, three days later. Harris, for all his grandstanding, unable to get them a lead. Stiles's nose was buried in his book, only his uncanny ability to sense where she was going keeping him from walking into disaster. "Put the book down and look at this beauty, Stiles." Lydia urged, knowing it was futile . She cut across the street quickly, knowing he'd pull out of the book to follow her once the traffic went by, and approached a tour guide, slipping into the group as he told a story of the gods with three of them standing there with them. Lydia smiled at them, the knowing glint in her eye startling the two that didn't know her already. "Excuse me, but could you tell me about the Ruby of Helen?" Lydia asked the guide, and all eyes turned to her for a long moment.

"The Ruby of Helen. You are beautiful enough to wear it, I'd think." The guide smiled sickeningly, and Lydia's mouth turned down on one side, "The Ruby of Helen was said to be cursed. Only the most beautiful throat in the world able to wear it without the necklace itself killing the unworthy wearer. The ruby was said to be a drop of blood from Aphrodite herself, given to Helen to ease her mind at the guilt at leaving her husband for the strapping, young Paris." The guide smirked smarmily, but Lydia was past that and onto the story. "It is said it was lost during the fall of Troy: Helen dropped the ruby into the seas as Agamemnon had forced her home to Sparta. It was never to be seen again." 

Lydia frowned unhappily, ignoring the glittering smirks of the gods as they moved on with the tour. "Lydia...what did Deaton say? We had full access to all his wisdom, all his treasure, all we had to do was ask? What if we're not asking for the right things?" Lydia was whirling, grabbing Stiles's arm, and speeding up to a sprint back to their hotel. 

Lydia almost missed a glimpse of Scott with a pretty brunette eating gelato. A pretty brunette Argent, Kate's arm around her shoulders and a smile on her lips as she talked to Scott. Unease spiked through her, but her breathlessness doubled as Stiles pulled her along into the hotel, the pair of them too excited for a lead, finally, to take the elevator, clambering up the stairs far too eagerly for propriety, and neither of them really cared. They swung into Stiles's rooms, the pink-purple cloud of glitter waiting for them. "Deaton! Deaton, do you have the Ruby of Helen?" Lydia grabbed onto Stiles's arm, steadying him from having stopped so suddenly, and together they stood in the sitting room of Stiles's hotel room, shaking slightly in anticipation. 

"I warn you now, Lady Lydia, it is not meant for your throat." Lydia nodded, not even caring, and Deaton twinkled for a moment, growing and shifting until the haze stood like a doorway, "Good luck finding what it is you seek." Deaton called to them from the bowels of the treasure room, and Stiles and Lydia grabbed hands, leaping through the portal without a second's hesitation. The doorway closed behind them, Deaton returning on the outside to his original shape, while a labyrinthine series of bookcases, piles of jewelry, and the paths winding haphazardly around them spread out before them. Breathing in the unbelievable quiet, Stiles and Lydia looked at each other, ready. Lydia smirked as she dropped her sun hat, twisting her hair up more securely and fastening it with a jewel-encrusted comb that appeared near her elbow.  
"This is going to be fun." Stiles cackled. 

"You may take and keep what you wish; but know now, both of you, there is magic both beneficial and insidious, and only within the confines of this room are the effects interrupted." 

"Will you be able to tell us if we ask?" Lydia confirmed. 

"As you wish, Lady Lydia."

Nodding to each other, Stiles and Lydia pressed forwards, carefully climbing into the thick of it. 

What felt like hours later, they were sitting on opposite ends, about a mile away from each other, the area around each of them carefully piled with things they'd looked through. "Let me guess, you're keeping ninety-five percent of the books you've come across?" Lydia taunted. 

"I don't even have to guess to know you're too heavy to stand under the weight of the jewelry you're wearing." Stiles retorted, snorting. "And I also don't have to ask to know if it's all cursed." 

"I just wanna safely wear the cursed stuff for a little while. I'll take it all off when I'm done playing dress-up." Lydia sniped, and Stiles grinned and hid it by pointing it at the small, golden chest containing Medusa's head. "You know, I think I've found fifteen things that we refused to be hired to find." 

"Probably a good thing we refused, then." Stiles snorted. "So, the way you guys work, Deaton: If something historically significant and useful is about to be lost---knowledge, or treasure, you swallow it, and it comes here."

"Close. We each have our own versions of a room like this." 

"And how many of you are there?"

"Hundreds." 

Stiles let out a low whistle, "That is a lot of treasure." 

"Just from this section alone we could live comfortably until the day we died." Lydia breathed. 

"You could live comfortably until the day you died anyway, Lady Martin, you're independently wealthy and dating a god!" Stiles snorted, not seeing Lydia's saddened frown. She hated thinking of how far apart her world of silver spoons and galas was to Stiles's own birth of a sheriff father and a school teacher mother. 

"Stiles, if you could ask for anything in the world for you and your family, what would it be?" Lydia asked quietly. Stiles sighed silently through his nose, closing his eyes for a moment. 

"I'd want for my dad to either have my mom back, or for him to be able to heal. He still wears his wedding ring. And I think...I think the reason Melissa moved her and Scott to Ireland instead of Scotland to look for Scott's father is because mine visits Grams in Ireland every spring." Stiles didn't even startle as Lydia laid her hand over Stiles's shoulder, brushing over his jaw with her thumb. "I want to see him let the wound close." Stiles leaned his cheek against her hand. 

"I'm sorry, Stiles." Lydia breathed, crying as she sat down around him, wrapping him in her arms. She'd never stop loving him for his selflessness. 

He reached up, holding her arm in both his hands, bleeding warmth into her, "It's okay, Lydia." 

He turned his head slightly, and she kissed his cheek, settling in around him, "Stiles, when all this is over, I want you to take time off. I'll even agree to stay in New York if it'll make you feel any better, but I want you to stay with your dad and...just, feel better than you do. Please? For me?" 

Stiles looked down at the little music box he'd found at the wreckage of the Hale castle, "Lydia, I've never...I've never felt any differently. Not really." Stiles folded just slightly in on himself, and Lydia crashed herself into his shoulder, almost tipping them both over as she hugged him fiercely, "I've always felt like I was waiting for something that would never come, Lydia. For something that I wouldn't be allowed to keep, that I didn't deserve. I'm not good, and I'm not strong. You say I am, but I know better." Stiles held up a hand, silencing her before she could say anything contrary, "Lydia, no. I am a big boy, and I know myself well enough to know what's going on in my heart and in my head. I'm not meant to be a hero, but it's what's been demanded of me." 

Lydia's hand uncurled over Stiles's cheek, her eyes focussed on his, "You've risen above and beyond, Stilinski, and don't you ever fucking forget it." She growled, pressing a hard kiss to his forehead before she stood, a flash of red in the odd, omnipresent half-light catching her eye. Leaning over, Lydia's hand shook slightly as she came into contact with the perfect, tear-shaped ruby, trailing the chain out behind it as it came free. "Stiles." Lydia breathed, her voice hushed. She whirled, stuffing the thing in his breast pocket before she whirled back and began to tear the pile apart, his pale hands catching falling debris and handling things a moment before she'd snarl in frustration at them, much more dexterous and nimble than her own hands were at that moment. A flash of gold caught her eye, and Stiles's hand reached past her, into the pile, seizing something at the heart of the tunnel she was digging and slowly drawing it out, like a sword singing from its scabbard. For one breathless moment, Lydia and Stiles stood frozen as he held a gold scroll between them. They were almost afraid to breathe for the disbelief, afraid it would vanish like a mirage if they disturbed it even a little. Slowly, Stiles unrolled the scroll, the colour and ink on the page strong and vibrant even though the language was one Lydia barely even recognized. 

Beside her, though, Stiles had all but gone into a trance, his eyes wide and almost unseeing as he gazed down at the page, "We were there." He breathed, "In the vortex. We were there." 

"Yes, Master Stilinski, you were." Deaton confirmed. Lydia's breath caught, too, remembering that unending blackness, the breathless empty void of silence and stillness. She couldn't imagine that hell to have been trapped in there, alone. Stiles blinked to control himself, his eyes pressing closed for a second and opening with the hard edge of a blade in their molten amber depths, because he would not stumble, wouldn't fall or risk falling if he could help it at all. 

"It describes the chamber...and it tells us how to get there." Stiles breathed. 

"How do you know that?" Lydia asked on a breath, watching him carefully. 

"I don't know." Stiles spoke five more languages than she did, but she could read eight more than he could, and the rest she could read were all the ones he knew. She'd never even seen a language like this one, and the light shining in his eyes was indubitable: she'd seen it before. He had his answers, he had the trail of the real treasure. 

Lydia and Stiles freed themselves of the pile, Lydia shedding jewelry as she went, all but the combs in her hair. "Deaton, will the scroll react to us taking it out of the enchantment?" 

"No." Deaton answered immediately, and Stiles nodded once, looking to the portal as it opened to his darkened sitting room, the cool caress of the wind rushing over them. 

It was just before she stepped over the threshold of the treasure room and back into the world that Lydia realized just what it was the wind carried on it. 

The burn of gunpowder and the poison of fear. 

 

~

 

It wasn't the first time Lydia and Stiles had walked into an ambush with their young companion held very violently captive. 

It wasn't even the first time it was an Argent doing the holding. 

But it was the first time they were unarmed and unprepared; the first time they stepped into it not knowing what it was they were about to step into. 

"Ah, I see you found Aphrodite's attempt at giving dear Derek an equal playing field." Kate purred, restraining Scott from fighting her grip with a signal to her compatriot to cock the pistol aimed at her niece's head. The girl was crying in earnest, and Lydia felt a stab of exasperation at such a display of weakness when it would get the girl nowhere. "I don't need the map, I was the one that locked the idiot away, but with the two of you gone for three days looking for it, it gave us all a nice little window of time to get better acquainted, didn't it, Scott?" 

"Don't hurt her...please...Not Allison." Scott choked out, and Kate laughed harshly once, the sound making Stiles flinch. 

"Katie; long time, no see." Lydia sneered, venom in her voice. 

Kate's eyes flashed, psychotic and terrifyingly inhuman, and she sneered right back, her smile petrifying, "What was it last time, Martin? Egypt, when I managed to infect your little friend and steal the prize while you took care of him?" Lydia snarled at the memory, the terror in Stiles's eyes and the fever raging under his skin. 

Lydia's hand closed around Stiles's wrist at the memory of the fever, panic spreading through her at the thought that at that moment, the plague could rear its ugly head. Stiles was steady under her hand, his eyes dark and calculating, confident. "You threw Derek into that hell?" He asked, and Kate nodded, a smile of complete madness stretching her features. "Let me guess, now you want another shot at finishing him off? Because burning his family alive and killing his sister weren't enough?" 

"Oh, dear, I didn't kill Laura." Kate laughed magnanimously, "No, I just helped the man who did. Helped him take Derek's wolf from him, too." 

Stiles shrugged it off, "But you do want another shot at him." Kate's eyes flicked up to her niece, then back to Stiles as he imperceptibly moved in front of Lydia, "You want to make him suffer. Because he's less than you are. A hybrid." Lydia knew with unerring certainty that the disgust in Stiles's voice was for show. "You kill us now, you don't get in. I'm the key and you know it." 

Kate's grip on Scott's arm loosened slightly, "When I saw you in Egypt...I thought I was looking at a ghost." 

"No. I'm real, and I'm the only thing that can open the gate to that city. It was a nice play, giving the boy that out. He could have fled the city and saved himself if he'd tried. But he didn't. He couldn't. He wanted to save Derek too much to even think of trying, and he couldn't be around for the lock on Derek's cell to open." 

Kate's twisted smile was beginning to wear thin for Lydia, and the easy way Stiles was revealing this information meant that he'd had some bad ideas beforehand, and he'd known that he couldn't have told her without risking her wrath should he follow through on them. "You can't be alive anywhere near it." 

Lydia's heart kicked, but Stiles was still steady under her hand, "Let the children go, and I'll get you in there." Stiles bargained. Lydia seethed, furious as they faced off against Kate and her crony. 

Before long, they'd been manhandled under the city, Scott dragged along with them and Allison taken back to the safety of her precious family. They were still unarmed, Stiles was beginning to pop his fever, and Lydia felt like she was going to cry with frustration, wondering where the fuck Jackson had wandered off to. The road in front of them grew steadily darker as they stumbled and tripped down a dirt path that would easily have once been a road, until an eerie blue light began to radiate from the end of the tunnel, casting Stiles into skeletal features and Scott into demon-black eyes. "What's...what's a hybrid?" Scott asked in a voice that trembled. 

"A god born of two belief systems. Derek's Irish and Greek, humans think they can't exist together, but they can and they do and from their union, we get gods that have the blood and the power, but don't belong to a belief system." Stiles explained in a dead voice, his eyes fixed forwards as they breached the mouth of the tunnel and a river of blue light flowed before them, sighing against the old stones of the channel containing it. "Kate, here's the end of the line." Stiles said, loud and clear, and the next thing Lydia knew, he'd pulled himself up on the edge of the bridge, precariously balanced. Blue light swelled, turning to talons trying to snag on his trouser cuff, but Stiles kept his balance, "Lydia and Scott stay on this side of the river. Only you and I press on." Kate took a step forward, and Stiles slid an inch back, so close to the edge Lydia couldn't stop the aborted flail of an attempt to grab him and save him. "You and me. Just you and me." 

"Counteroffer." Kate purred, signalling someone behind them. Harris bumped into Lydia's side, the jostle knocking her hair loose though it didn't completely fall, and Lydia sparked an idea, the cool, confident light in Stiles's eyes signalling he'd already realized, he'd been waiting for her to catch up. "You, me, and Harris go in. See, his great-great-whatever grandaddy helped me, once upon a time," Kate sighed, draping herself around Harris as she did, "he helped me trap a god, and now this one's going to help me kill that god." She smiled sickeningly sweet, and Harris matched the expression with his own twist on her madness, completely infatuated. Stiles's eyes flashed pity that Lydia honestly couldn't summon. Bastard deserved whatever he got. 

Stiles nodded slowly, turning deliberately and setting foot on the bridge, Harris following along after him and Kate bringing up the rear, signalling her men to kill Lydia and Scott once they were out of earshot. Lydia reached up to the combs in her hair, releasing them and letting her strawberry blond ringlets fall in easy circles to her shoulders, the combs reshaping in her hands, blades taking form because she needed them to. The two goons left with her and Scott turned on them, and she smiled, perfectly at ease. 

The silver of the blades in her hands flashed in the strange light cast from the river, and one of the goons seemed to have enough sense to know that he'd chosen the wrong profession, panic slipping over his features before her blade lashed out, the blades sliding easily through flesh and into jugular, the momentum carrying her into a fight with the second as the first's body fell. Scott let out a short cry of disbelief as the river reared up, claw-like hands forming from the light to grip onto the dead man's body, pulling him into being swallowed by the depths of blue light. An earth-shattering roar sounded from across the bridge, and Lydia was flying over the aged stones, desperate to get to Stiles, before she was thrown aside by a great, monstrous shadow, glowing red eyes on Scott as it bounded over the river, ignoring the cling of the blue light, the call of death, its great maw closing on Scott's side. Lydia fought to get her feet under her, trying to pick herself up off the dirt bank that ran along the side of the river, but she was sluggish, uncoordinated. She had to get to Scott; had to get to Stiles. There was no way she was leaving him down there alone with that evil, hell-fucking she-beast. 

"Who, you mean Kate?" A fuzzy voice asked from very far away, and Lydia could only glimpse dark skin as she was lifted into heavily-muscled arms. Something that buzzed in her brain but that she knew was a laugh rumbled around her, and she was floating. 

 

~

 

Lydia came-to to blond hair and red lips blurred in front of her, and the image wasn't clearing up particularly well no matter how many times she blinked. 

"Shhh, shh. You're okay, you're safe. Boyd and I got you and your boy." 

"S-Stiles…" Lydia managed, trying to shake herself out of it. 

"He's in the city, but the monster left, and he's already caught the disease." 

"Argent---" Lydia growled, her hands curling into talons trying to pick herself up. 

She felt hands press her shoulders down with a gentle but immovable force, "I believe in karma, and Kate Argent's karma is bad enough that she will die in that wasteland. Mark my words."

Lydia's vision went dark again before she could say that Stiles's luck was bad enough to be able to claim him, too. 

When Lydia next came-to, Stiles was laying on his stomach on the makeshift bed beside her, his hand over hers and his features distorted with fever she couldn't catch. "You wouldn't let me go." Stiles croaked in explanation at their hands, his throat so raw as to be bleeding, and Lydia's whole being screamed out in agony, her limbs jumping to attention and carrying her upright, desperation flooding off of her to help him. 

Scott was coming in to the makeshift tent, and he looked grim; Deaton following behind him as a puff of pink-purple shimmer. "He managed to get away...Kate has Derek most likely, and they're trapped in that city; the potion Grams made for Stiles has been destroyed, probably by Harris, and apparently I'm now lycanthropic. Allison's safe." 

Lydia blinked slowly, trying to take it all in. "Stiles needs to get to Derek." Lydia's hand found his hair, curling protectively into the wild mess. "Derek's the only one that can stop the disease." The tent entrance behind Scott shifted, and the blond hair and red lips slid into the circle of light thrown by the lantern. 

Brown eyes smiled hesitantly at her, but the girl they belonged to didn't let it last, "That's all well and good, but he's in no state to be moved, and Derek's been down here, slowly deteriorating, for centuries. Meaning he'll be hardly more than bones." 

Stiles whimpered, the hand Lydia had woken holding tightening into a fist against their palate, "We need to get him out. So we're going to get him out." Stiles growled, and Deaton made a sound of triumph, ducking around Scott and zooming over to Stiles. 

"Put this on." Deaton ordered, coughing up a ring. It was huge and heavy, a set of fanged teeth designed to be wrapped around a finger much larger than his. "It's Derek's ring. It will give you his strength until you can put it on his finger, and then it should give him his own. I took it from him before the vortex closed." 

"This is how he managed to keep the boy safe during battle." Stiles breathed, the ring slipping loosely over his finger and shrinking down to size as it came into contact with his skin. Stiles's skin began to glow, just slightly, golden, the power in the ring flowing through him, filling him up until the fever was gone and in its place was a desperate need to defend and protect. Stiles pulled himself upright, then to his feet, the low ceiling of the tent hunching his shoulders slightly, "I need to find Derek. We need to find Derek. Kate knows where she's going in that city, but I'm hoping Derek managed to move himself over the years." 

The blond shook her head, "He was chained with special runes. No powers, no being able to summon him or banish him. Hephaestus made those damn chains himself." 

"How do you know this?" Lydia asked, trying to keep the cattiness out of her voice to no avail. 

The blond looked behind her as a brick wall of a man entered the tent, his presence soothing in a weird, unsettling way. "My name is Boyd, and this is Erica. We were part of Derek's pack." 

"Boyd and Erica weren't your given names, were they?" Stiles asked shrewdly, his eyes glinting in the diffuse light. 

Boyd grunted something close to a snort, "No." 

Stiles stepped forward, offering his hand, and Boyd almost looked startled, "I served with all kinds and colours, and Africa is almost a second home for how much time we spend there. If you can put up with two men falling in love, there's absolutely no troubles between us." 

Boyd studied him for a long moment, nodding slowly and slapping his hand into Stiles's to shake once. Erica smiled at him, predatory and sharp, her eyes flashing as she flounced forward, kissing Stiles's cheek. Lydia barely held back a growl, moving forward to shake Boyd's hand and flash an approximation of a smile at Erica. "We need weapons." 

"Tools, too, for the chains." Erica confirmed. 

Lydia smiled, slow and deadly, "Oh, no. If Hephaestus made those chains, we don't have to worry about getting them off." She purred, a smirk pulling at the corners of Stiles's lips as she slipped past them. They were in an alcove off of the side of the river's chamber, hidden in what looked like an apothecary's store house, the tent erected in the bowels of the room, the softened glow of the lamp light shining off of jars of ancient herbs. "Stiles?"

"You remember the right selection of ingredients?"

"Like you ever forget how to make a magical molotov cocktail." Lydia snickered. 

Stiles nodded, pressing on, "Scott, go to Lydia's rooms and get her weapons. Deaton, I need all the blessed weapons you have, but nothing that's going to do us more harm than good. I can't be alive anywhere in the confines of the city for Derek's cage to open, so if Kate hasn't opened it already, we're going to have to kill me." Lydia's movements froze, her eyes flashing, and Stiles moved into her space, resting his chin on her shoulder, "You'll get me back, though, Lyds." 

"I'd better. I've no patience for breaking in a new partner." Lydia snapped, and he kissed her cheek roguishly, smiling to himself, "Yes, shut up, I love you." She growled, grabbing down ingredients as if she'd been the one to organize the room. 

"How are you going to pull that one off?" Erica asked skeptically. 

"With a little magic and a lot of luck." Stiles murmured, "Once we're in, the only way to get out is me---"

"You're not talking me out of not coming with you, don't even attempt it." Lydia tossed her hair dismissively, "Boyd, tell Scott if Stiles and I don't come back, he gets my fortune and the pleasure of telling Stiles's father he died going after a hot piece of ass. And it wasn't even mine." Lydia tsked at him, shaking her head slowly. He laughed, bumping his hip into her ass as he passed with his own ingredients, laying them out on the scarred worktable. 

Armed a few hours later, Stiles and Lydia marched to the gates with a grim determination, ready for Hell. "Téimid le chéile." Stiles muttered, offering her his hand at the black, snarled metal. 

"I gcónaí." She murmured in return, taking his hand and letting him guide her into the darkness. 

They released each other as the shadows swallowed them away from the light cast by Boyd and Erica's lanterns, the sounds of their friends fading to a ringing, hollow blankness, the only sound the thickened shuffling of their feet through the dirt and dust. The air was no less oppressive, but the darkness could be warded off. Lydia could hear Stiles murmuring softly under his breath, and the gentle blow of his breath over his palm as he completed the spell, sending tiny lights like fireflies out from the powder he'd had in his hand. "It's like a Hand of Glory, only without it being someone's lopped off hand." Stiles snickered at the face he knew Lydia was making, "We can see the light, but no one else can. Derek should be able to, too." 

"How did you escape?" Lydia asked breathlessly, her guns in her hands and her entire body tense as a drawn bow but steady as a rock. 

"While the beast was charging them, I extinguished their torches and followed the path the beast took as quickly as I could." Stiles offered her a hand as the ground showed the vicious gouges of claws, steadying her elbow over both sets while she scanned the surrounding area for any threat of attack. 

"You are really quite handy in a fight, Stiles." 

"That sounds vaguely insulting, but I've seen you strangle a minotaur with your thighs, so I'll take it as a compliment." 

"Good plan." Lydia laughed. Her eyes flicked out in the darkness, and her smile twisted, "Oh, look, Stiles: it's a weasel." 

"I think he peed himself." Stiles laughed as they drew closer to where Harris huddled, shuddering and scared, folded over on himself. "I think it's an insult to weasels." 

"I agree." Lydia chirped. Harris cowered, unable to see them though they could see him perfectly. Lydia pressed the muzzle of the gun under Harris's jaw, forcing his head up, "Now you're going to tell us where Kate is, Harris, or I'm going to have to think up some fun and creative new ways of slaughtering you slowly and painfully." 

"I-I don't know. _Please_. I don't know." 

"Lydia, listen." Stiles hushed gently, and Lydia's ears picked up, the acrid zing of ozone piercing through the air a moment before a silvery-white flash of light exploded almost a mile to their left, an inhuman roar piercing the silence. Stiles jerked, cold fury closing over his features. Lydia and he took off at a sprint, Stiles tense and dangerous as they reached the mouth of the chamber, Kate Argent's hands crackled with a handheld taser, the desiccated form in front of her trying and unable to move, to make any more sound. "Lydia, flay her, please." Stiles grit out, rage rolling off him. Lydia launched herself at Kate, letting Stiles slip past them, headed for the chains. Stiles slipped his handheld torch from his pocket, slipping goggles over his eyes and taking the torch to the metal, cutting through the shackles like a hot knife through butter. 

Snagging talons in Lydia's hair, Kate threw her down against the floor, Lydia's legs whipping out, kicking under her ribs as she rolled backwards, throwing her over her body, sending her smashing into a wall. Lydia produced knives from the sheathes strapped to her thighs, slashing out with one as she pinned the other through Kate's hand, thrusting the blade through into the packed dirt floor, whipping out with a right hook that followed through into a vicious elbow across her jaw. Kate yanked her hand away from the floor with a harsh shriek, tumbling them sideways and lunging forward with the knife, striking out at Lydia's ribs. Lydia knocked upwards, catching Kate in the chin with her knee and then kicking out into her diaphragm. Lydia got to her feet while Kate wheezed, coughing harshly as she curled up on her side. Stiles slipped the ring onto Derek's finger, taking him into Stiles's arms and inching towards the door, "Lydia, the chains!" Stiles yelled, shuffling out of the chamber as Derek's powers began to fill him back out, muscles reforming, and skin. Stiles held him against his side, watching carefully as Derek's body rebuilt itself, "What language do you speak?" Stiles breathed desperately, watching as the most startling pair of blue-grey-green eyes focused on him from milky clouds of age to clear intensity in their attention. 

"I can speak whatever language you do." Derek's voice was rough and wheezing, and it kicked through Stiles's chest. He held on more securely, watching as Lydia whipped the chains at Kate, the magic in Hephaestus's chains knitting around her like an anaconda. Stiles started moving them, half-carrying Derek past Harris, Stiles grabbing him by the ear and twisting, Harris screaming as Stiles forced him to stand, moving along with them. "What are you doing?" 

" _She_ deserves the dark." Stiles grit out, moving Harris along and keeping Derek upright while he grew in stature, muscles reforming with each awkward, shuffling step. "Besides, what Lydia will do to him will make the darkness look like a mercy." Stiles growled as the door to the chamber slammed closed and Lydia caught up to them, collaring Harris in an even more painful hold than Stiles had had him in. Stiles snickered, and Derek's mouth twitched. "I'm Stiles, by the way." 

"What's a Stiles?" 

"It's my name." Stiles snapped. 

"Derek Hale." Derek's voice was almost teasing, and it grated more than it should have. They stumbled slightly over the uneven ground torn into by the beast's talons. 

"And that's Lady Lydia Martin." Stiles's voice rang with pride, Lydia flashing him a smile over her shoulder, her hair cascading around her shoulders. 

"Lady Lydia Martin and Stiles?" the incredulity in his voice was not appreciated by Stiles, but it made Lydia chuckle quietly. 

"Stiles Stilinski." 

"No, that's not his real name. _I_ don't even know his real name, and I've known him most of my life." Stiles laughed, steadying Derek with the side of his body and Lydia with his other hand, keeping balance easily. "Stiles, how's the fever?" 

"It's low-grade." Derek answered, "It started as soon as you took the ring off…"

"It was keeping me on my feet until we could get to you." The arm around his shoulders went tense, diamond-tense, and Stiles could see Derek twitch, his features utterly stormy. 

"You're him." Derek growled, his voice a blow directly to Stiles's central nervous system. 

"No, I'm me," Stiles sighed, opening the gate to the city and letting Lydia and Harris go through before he helped Derek along behind them. 

Harris pulled a gun, knocking Lydia aside and yanking Stiles out from under Derek, the god's body slumping to the ground without his support as Harris inched away from Lydia's perfect aim and the threat of a god of wolves with his powers being restored. "Either of you move, and I'll shoot him." Lydia watched in utter wrath as they slowly backed towards the river. Stiles caught her eye, the little vial of near-black liquid glinting in his hand, and she wanted to scream at him not to do it, her body jerking at the shock like it was a real blow. 

"I've seem some infinite stupidity in my time, Harris, but you take the cake." Stiles laughed, his amber eyes glinting black as they got closer to the blue light. His features were fierce and sharp and unforgivingly set, the same as his heart, and Lydia felt tears well in her eyes. Harris tensed, unduly angry at the slight, and Stiles smiled, uncorking the vial and throwing back the contents. 

Lydia didn't need to have enhanced senses or godlike powers to know that the moment the mixture touched his lips, Stiles's heart stopped. To her right, slumped against the wall, Derek roared in agonized fury, and Harris's eyes widened in fear at the sound, but it wasn't Derek he had to worry about. He was now holding a dead body, and he was standing between the river and a fresh kill. The blue rose up behind him, unseen, clawing at him to reach Stiles and engulfing Harris completely. Lydia hadn't thought Derek would've been able to, but he reared up to his feet fully and launched himself forward, snagging Stiles's ankle before he could be torn away and pulling him from Harris's grasp and into his arms, dragging him from the clutches of the blue light while it ate Harris whole, melting him away. Lydia ran to them, pulling with him, until Derek could fold himself around Stiles, his eyes flashing the same blue as the river as he roared at it in dominance, cradling Stiles with his emaciated body, the soft gold sheen of godhood pouring from his skin, fighting back the blue. The blue fled, taking Harris with it, and Lydia wanted to vomit for the smell of burned flesh and hair, but she wanted to weep until she broke even more, because Stiles was lying there. "How do you reverse it?" Derek demanded, looking wild and inhumanly beautiful. 

"We...we can't...only Stiles can. He's gotta fight his way back...if there's enough to keep him here." Lydia managed between wracking sobs. She was shaking and tired and it always hit her too hard when Stiles leapt in front of the bullet, when there was a chance---and this was a good one, the way he'd been feeling lately---that Stiles wouldn't come back. Derek stared at her for a long time, and Lydia could hear Erica, Scott, and Boyd clattering towards them. Derek grit his teeth, scooping Stiles into his arms bridal style, and though Lydia never would have thought it was possible for him to even stand on his own while he was still so weak, he stood, carrying Stiles over the bridge and hissing at the light as it began to form into grasping hands again. Erica's expression of undiluted awe as Derek walked steadily towards them took a backseat in Lydia's mind only because Scott was halfway to murderous at the sight of Stiles still and dead. "Scott, he was trying to save Harris's life...then he had to save all of ours---"

"He was an idiot." Derek snarled, his eyes flashing that blue again, "He should have left him there to die." 

Scott turned on him, "He should have left you there, in the darkness. He wouldn't have gotten sick, he wouldn’t have been anywhere near Harris, he wouldn't have gotten maudlin enough that he might not wake up!" 

"Scott, you want to yell at someone, yell at me. This was my doing, and we both know it. But until then, so help me, boy, I will not tolerate this. Stiles has saved both our skins more times than we can count, and there's no stopping him once he sets his mind to something---"

"Just like there's no stopping you!" Scott bellowed, his eyes flashing gold. Derek roared marginally less violently than he had at the river, and Scott's eyes shifted back, his expression that of a kicked puppy, but he didn't cower as Erica and Boyd did. Boyd looked uncertain, as if something had gone wrong with the roar, slowly pulling Erica up and towards him as he stared at Derek. 

"You're not---"

"Peter took the wolf in me." Derek snarled, angry and holding onto Stiles's limp form with unbreakable strength as his muscles regrew and formed, the solid build of his body filling back out steadily. Lydia was impressed, even if it gave her misgivings about Stiles's size compared to Derek's. "Lady Martin, where are we going?" Derek ground out, impatient. 

"Lydia, and we're going topside. Follow me." Lydia felt unease to her core about Scott and his new development, but Stiles deserved a bed, and Derek needed to be taken care of. "Here, put these on or you'll go blind from the light." Lydia instructed, putting tinted specs on him herself as they got near the lighted areas of the underground. Derek didn't so much as break a sweat under the weight of Stiles, separate from Scott, Boyd, and Erica purposefully, his shoulders hunched slightly around the prone form in his arms, Stiles's face tucked into Derek's neck and his body tucked up against Derek's chest. Erica and Boyd squinted slightly as they reached daylight; having been down there for a month lying in wait for a prophecy to fulfill itself and for Derek's return. The beast and evidence of the beast was gone, and Lydia didn't know whether to be thankful or to start worrying. Lydia cursed fervently and quietly as they reached the doorway to civilization, because there was no way Derek wasn't going to draw attention being half-naked and dressed in trousers that were in tatters, and Stiles was unmistakably pale and still, herself covered in dirt and scrapes. 

"Derek---" Boyd began, interrupted by Derek's low growl. 

"I'm not letting him go." 

"You'll be seen." Erica protested weakly. "We have to worry about exposure, and Ares will be furious you've…" Erica stopped herself at the sight of Derek's glower, and Lydia had to step up finally. 

"Derek, can you follow us without being seen?" He nodded shortly, "With Stiles?" He hesitated for a moment, looking through the window to the bright, stark world beyond, "I won't let a damn thing happen to him, Derek, and I won't trust him to anyone who won't help him. He's my brother; a half of me. I won't let him be hurt." 

"It'll be difficult, but I can do it. If you could draw attention, it'd ease the way." Derek finally ground out, his eyes hard and determined. 

Lydia threw a look at Erica, cocking one eyebrow in question, "I daresay you and I could distract a crowd. Sport?"

Erica looked from Lydia's features to her offered arm, a predatory look sliding over her face, "Play." 

Lydia didn't breathe even remotely easy again until they tumbled out of the lift, Derek and Stiles loitering outside the door to Stiles's rooms, "How did you---?" 

"He can track scents." Erica supplied. Lydia let them all in, guiding Derek silently to the bedroom and helping him to divest Stiles of his equipment and more uncomfortable articles of clothing. Derek lingered for a long while, watching Stiles as if he expected him to simply open his eyes. "How long will it be before we can tell if he's really dead or not?" 

"Lydia and I will be able to tell." Lydia looked sharply at him, but he gave nothing away. 

"Scott, wire Edna about getting Derek some clothes made." Lydia requested quietly, her revenge firmly under the best-served-cold category once the designer would see Derek. If anyone could stand under that glare---besides maybe Stiles---it'd be E. 

"I'm not leaving this room until he's woken." Derek growled darkly. 

Lydia tossed her hair over her shoulder, settling into the chair by the bed, "She'll come to you. Now, we should probably start feeding you."

"I'll find something. Stiles did say that garlic and coffee were two very good reasons to live." Lydia laughed at the memory, nodding her approval to Scott. 

"Hear that, little brother?" Lydia asked on a breath, reaching over to smooth back Stiles's wild hair. "Come back, if only for the food." 

Lydia was asleep in the chair, her legs propped on the end of the bed and a sheet draped over her haphazardly when the noise of someone leaping from the tub in the other room woke her, her eyes shifting open to the sight of Derek...in all his glory. 

His eyes were completely focused on Stiles, somewhere between painfully hopeful and innocently devastated. Lydia shifted her eyes away with some difficulty, Derek's bare skin wet and perfectly smooth. On the bed, Stiles's fingers flinched, his mouth falling open with a soft, last-breath exhale of air before he went still again. Grief welled up in Lydia to the point where she almost missed Stiles's small gasp, and the flutter of his lashes against his cheeks. Stiles's eyes opened, and Lydia pounced on him, hugging hard enough to creak bones and inadvertently angling Stiles perfectly to see the view there was to see over her shoulder. Stiles squeaked slightly, and Lydia was glad there was nothing reflective for the smile of pure evil she knew was over her mouth to catch in, "Please stop trying to break me, I did just not-die." Rubbing his ribs theatrically, Stiles let her set him back against the pillows, his eyes flicking to her with knowing exasperation and accusation, and she pulled on innocence like a glove, kissing his temple and excusing herself to get him something to eat and drink. "Hello, Derek. Sorry for dying on you there." She heard Stiles mutter deprecatingly. 

Scott was bigger than her, but now he was also stronger than her, too, and intercepting him from barging into that room was only accomplished because Erica stuck her leg out and tripped him, Lydia snicking the lock closed and slipping the key to the room into her pocket before he could reach the doors. "Break that door open, Scott, and I'll tear out your spine and make you floss with it." Lydia chirped, shooing him off more forcefully than she'd ever let herself be with the boy before. Erica smiled slowly, batting her eyelashes flirtatiously. 

"Yes! Because locking Derek and I in a room together when we just went to so much trouble to get him out of being locked up, that's really going to be very beneficial!" Stiles yelled through the door, and Lydia had to concede that. 

"You have to put up with Scott!" Lydia shot back anyway, unlocking the door immediately and slipping around Scott while his eyes flashed gold again. 

"Scott, if you enter this room right now, I will _let_ Lydia tear your spine out and make you floss with it." Stiles growled out, and Scott rocked back on his heels, startled.

Erica stared intently at the door for a long moment, and Lydia hesitated, looking between it and her, "They're arguing...Derek doesn't know how to let others take risks, and Stiles doesn't want to hear it about letting Harris suffer the dark." Erica's lips twitched in amusement as she continued to listen, "Stiles is really very creative in his curse words, isn't he?" 

"You should see that boy on ouzo." Lydia sighed, shaking her head. 

"Everyone else leave, I can manage to take care of Stiles probably better on my own than with the lot of you." Derek snapped, his voice oozing the tension. Lydia hefted the small tray of tea service they'd set aside, carrying it deftly to the door and slipping through. 

Lydia felt an aborted wave of malcontent seeing Derek with clothes on his skin, but she bustled to the bed anyway, "I'm not going anywhere, Mr. Hale." Lydia set the service down next to Stiles's hip, seating herself down by his feet with her hands folded primly in her lap and a look of innocuous vacancy on her face.

"Where's Jackson?" Stiles asked suddenly, cutting right through everything else in its entirety to get at her soft spot. Lydia cursed him thoroughly. 

She also started running for her own rooms with panic swelling in her chest. 

She burst into her rooms, and the smell of blood was thick enough that even her human senses were almost overwhelmed by it. Derek and Erica came clattering in behind her, Derek's eyes flashing blue as he snarled, herding her back out of the room while Erica pressed forwards. "Your lover, Jackson, is he a god?"

"Yes. Please, there were more than just Scott, Harris, Stiles and I to our party, and a human died in there. I need to see who." 

"Once Erica makes sure there's no threat, then I'll let you in." Derek ordered, his presence mountainous and commanding. Lydia could see that he was meant to lead; to rule men. It was plain to anyone who'd look. 

Lydia grabbed his arm, dragging him back and into Stiles's bedroom, where Scott had Stiles pinned to the wall with a forearm across his chest. "SCOTT!" Lydia shrieked, turning murderous, and Derek let his eyes turn blue, his fangs running out at the sight of Stiles's weakened body thrown up against the wall like that. Scott startled, his grip faltering, and Stiles slid from it, holding himself upright by a grip on the bedside table and watching with more worry for Scott than himself as Scott freaked out. Derek inserted himself between Scott and Stiles with a tightly controlled rage, keeping his back to Stiles to ward Scott further away, Lydia sheltered by the outstretch of his arm, included in the list of people he was protecting even if she was further down the food chain than Stiles was. Stiles rocked a little on unsteady feet as Scott slipped out of the door, and Derek turned to him, half-pulling him into his arms and half-allowing him to collapse there. Derek cradled him close, sliding and dipping him until he was being laid out on the bed again. 

"We started arguing...about my dad, what situations like this would do to him if I died," Stiles explained, voice a little pained. Derek checked his temperature and felt along both sides of his ribs, along his back, making sure nothing was broken. Stiles shook his head, "he got mad, started to flash gold irises, and then I wasn't in bed anymore. He didn't hit me that hard."

"Hitting you at all is hitting you too hard right now." Lydia and Derek snapped in unison, throwing each other looks before focusing immediately back on Stiles. 

"Your body's been put through a plague and whatever that poison was, you need to rest." Derek rumbled, eyes intense and dangerous again. Stiles reached up, holding onto his arm, his own eyes huge and luminous. 

"He needs control, that's all. He didn't do it on purpose, and he wouldn't---"

"He wasn't meant to get the bite. He wasn't meant to be turned." Lydia took a small, shaky breath, walking to the other side of the bed and sitting on it, in easy range to calm and comfort Stiles. 

"I think you should probably tell us what's going on, Derek." Lydia told him steadily, watching the possessive flair in his eyes as Stiles leaned into her, and the tightening of his jaw that spoke of reluctance to talk.

"Don't you need to identify the dead body?" Derek growled in return, just as Erica slipped into the light cast from Stiles's open bedroom door. 

"The scent's reptilian. Cloying. It's nasty and basically everything in me right now is screaming "not good". But it wasn't Peter." 

Derek nodded, dismissive as well as in recognition. Lydia didn't like conceding the point or leaving Stiles, but she did have to go see who'd died. Stiles's fingers caught the sleeve of her blouse, his gaze heavy, "Cover our tracks, but don't break yourself doing it." 

Lydia nodded, passing a hand through his hair, "Tell him the story while I'm gone, Derek. He loves stories." 

Erica trailed her out of the room, getting close and talking in a breath that was almost too low for Lydia to hear. "Pushing them together is dangerous, Lady Martin. Derek was broken _before_ he listened to his lover die trying to save him. Know what you're doing. I won't lose our Alpha again." Erica pushed off from her side, walking backwards towards the lift for a moment, "Oh, and Boyd and I have Scott." Erica flashed a smile, and Lydia began to question if she'd ever make a facial expression that wasn't threatening in some way. 

Camden Lahey's glassy eyes stared up at her from an ocean of blood. Lydia took a deep breath and exited the room again, lingering outside of the door to Stiles's. "Derek, I'm going to scream to alert people. I'm not hurt or in danger, I just need you and Stiles to stay there. Keep him safe until I can come back." 

Thankful that she'd removed all her weapons, Lydia went back into the room, took another deep breath, and then screamed, hoping Derek heard her and listened. 

From the only other room on their floor, the door burst open, and a young man came running. Lydia went breathless as he scooped her up protectively, glancing over her head at the grisly scene and moving them both from the room, hushing and comforting her. "It's going to be okay. C'mon, we'll ring the police from my room." He murmured in heavily accented English, tucking her head down against his neck to block her view of the room as he shuffled them out of it. 

"Oh, thank you." She sighed, putting on her helpless-damsel voice, "My name is Lady Lydia Martin."

He smiled coaxingly, "Petros Angelis, Lady Martin." She sniffed, looking up at him with bright, welcoming eyes that were drowning in tears. He kissed her hand, leading her with dancelike grace and seating her down on a mirror of the very couch Camden had soaked through with blood. 

Jackson appeared before long, his voice carrying over the bustle and din of police, demanding to know where she was. Lydia rose from Petros's side for the first time since he'd come to get her, hurrying over to him and falling into his arms theatrically, burying her face in his neck while he held her in order to growl out the information, "It's Camden. Harris is dead, too, but no one will ever find the body, because there's no body left to be found." Jackson tensed in her arms, and she held on tighter, to the point where she'd be causing him pain, "When all this is over, I want you to disappear. I'm not interested until you _grow up_." She growled, releasing him finally and turning back to Petros, introducing them and lingering closer to Petros than she was to Jackson. Jackson was twitchy in an unfamiliar way, shifting and standoffish in a way that had nothing to do with her breaking up with him, she knew. 

By the time she slipped back into Stiles's rooms, warding the police off with a polite 'he's not returned yet' and a made-up cover story of a night on the town. The Grecian police were understaffed and underfunded, hurting from the war, and Lydia was a tourist and a person of importance, so it wasn't difficult to get herself back to the hotel, politely declining Petros's offer of a place to stay and scowling Jackson into leaving. 

Derek was curled up around Stiles, his huge arm draped over Stiles's waist, and Stiles's hands clutching his. Stiles wasn't a peaceful sleeper. He hardly slept. Fit into the curve of Derek's body, though, he seemed dead to the world, an ease to his features that was never actually there. He looked young, like the boy he'd been when they'd first started out as partners. Derek was going to be good for him, she could tell. Lydia slid into the room, gathering the spare pillow and blanket from the wardrobe, building herself a makeshift bed on the couch and slipping into the washroom quickly. Derek was awake when she slipped out, waiting for her in the sitting room instead of staying curled around a now-chilled Stiles. Sighing, she shut the door quietly behind her before turning to Derek, folding her arms over her chest. "You don't want to be mixed up in the life he's chosen to live."

"I don't want him taking unnecessary risks. _He could've died_." 

"So could I. You could still be in that unholy blackness, devoid of all light and sound, devoid of anything. He loves passionately, Derek, and no amount of coddling will stop him from running into the thick of fire." Lydia bore herself up, letting the same ferocity Stiles held in his heart burn in her eyes, "Sit. You have a lot to catch up on." 

The vestiges of fatigue that Lydia had had in the police station drained away as she started telling Derek about the scrawny, nerdy, sweet little boy that had started following her around at age eight and hadn't stopped until he was seventeen and shipping out for the trenches and the blood. "He has a talent for getting in and out of places no one else can. If it hadn't been for his tendency to talk back, I'm sure they would've pushed to keep him as a spy." Lydia smiled sadly down at the hem of her borrowed shirt. Stiles didn't buy fabrics as high of quality as she did, but it was familiar and worn and it smelled of him, softness be damned. Lydia made a mental note to try to slip him more money before she pulled herself back into her memories, "I didn't even really know his name. But two days after he got back from the war, I was to be auctioned off, essentially. My...I guess adoptive parents...wanted me gone. They struck a deal with the man they found to marry me for my money, and they were to be paid once he'd married me and killed me. Stiles, of course, had managed to figure it all out, though he's never told me how, and he crashed the party and saved me. Had them arrested, or tried to. The man pulled a gun on me, and Stiles put himself between it and me. Being the sheriff's son, that pretty much guaranteed that the police started shooting before he could. 

"From then on, Stiles and I became best friends. He loved me, but I didn't return the sentiment in the same manner it was given. When I started expressing an interest in the occult and my father's reputation as a treasure hunter, Stiles came with me. He's useful, or he'll find a way to make himself useful. Before the year was out we were a growing...well, the notoriety probably came from the scandal of the two of us travelling together. He's from a poor family, has an anonymous background, and I am the heiress to one of the largest fortunes in America. When I earned the title of Lady and he refused being given either a knighthood or a title of his own, things seemed to calm down a little. We travelled through India looking for a fertility statue that was meant to join lovers, and there I found Jackson." Lydia smiled to herself at the memory, "Stiles and he hated each other from the word go, and I think it'll always be that way. Stiles...he's protective. Fiercely protective and loyal, and Jackson doesn't treat me right." She shrugged. "I suppose I'll be the same way. From meeting Jackson, things just grew. Stiles spent two months as a hand in Hephaestus's forge, in order to get a sword able to kill a dragon terrorizing Denmark out of a stone in Wales; I found Pallas Athena's lost diadem while Stiles was battling pirates risen from the dead. Conventina's springs were drying up, Ganesh was being hunted by an ivory poacher. He's been shot, stabbed, burned, garroted, strangled, hung, drowned, frozen, beaten, trampled, eaten, and poisoned. He's seen more pain than I've ever wanted him to, and he's performed more miracles than any of you gods. We've been tossed through time, space, and Tartarus, and he has never once backed down." 

"You came after me. Why?" 

Lydia shifted, sitting back in her seat and draping herself more comfortably, "Nymphs and vampires were having it out in Bulgaria. When we first got there, the vampire who'd sent for us tried to make Stiles his princess of darkness, no lie." Lydia laughed softly, shaking her head, "But the nymphs...we were hired to retrieve a particular virgin the nymphs had taken, one with a destiny very dear to the vampire's hearts, shall we say. Stiles not only has a talent for negotiation, he also has his virtue still. He was using himself as bait in a way, walking in there as the vampire's representation, but the nymphs read his heart and saw that he had a bond to someone so strong that not even they could break it. They gave back the virgin, and we were on our way, back home, but Stiles was...he was bereft. He had this fantastical bond and it was incomplete. It weighed on him like another rejection...and can you imagine what that feels like? How it would...decimate your soul, because the person you were made for, who was made for you, rejected you still?" Lydia shrugged the thought away, taking a deep breath, "I refused to believe that, though Stiles had a point that a bond that strong would've drawn his bondmate to him, so it left the only the option that something was holding them back." 

"Holding me back." He intoned darkly, and Lydia nodded. 

"He's been tortured and tormented for so long, Derek. He's been _alone_ for so long." Lydia frowned, playing with the cuff of Stiles's shirt, worn and ink-splattered lightly, "Keep him safe, it's all I can ask." 

"I wouldn't see him hurt again." Derek murmured, and Lydia knew it was half-confirmation and agreement, and half-warning label. 

"He's resilient, and forgiving." 

"You're throwing him back into the fire, I'm not---"

"You're strong. You're steadfast. You'll do what needs doing when it comes to taking care of him. Anything beyond that, you'll have me to fall back on. I won't hold back when I think you're being an idiot." 

"He's infuriating." 

Lydia grinned, "Stop fighting it and he won't be." 

"I'm not fighting anything, not really!" 

Lydia tried to hold back her giggle at the look of incredulity on Derek's features, biting down on her lower lip to keep it at bay, "It's a rhythm, Derek. He'll slow down or speed up to help you fit into it, but you've gotta pick it up yourself."

"He talks in circles. About nothing. It's one of the most annoying---" 

Lydia snorted, "No, he talks in circles about everything, you just have to know what to pick up on. Half of what he says is in code, and the other half sounds insane enough to be code, but isn't. The war did things to him that I've never even managed to scratch the surface of, and I think that the talking was one of them. They needed him not to be able to say any of what he knew, so what better way than to make him say everything else first?" 

Derek's eyes were wide, startled and a little angry, and Lydia felt warmth start in her chest, because it would work out with Derek, if only for the fact that he already cared. 

"I've been told by you and your...betas that you're broken, that you've been broken for a long time. I don't care. All of us are broken, Derek. All of us, in some way or another are bleeding and bruised, Stiles and I included. The only way to stop the bleeding and ease the pain is to run the risk that you're going to cause yourself even more by letting someone in."

Derek sighed softly, the intensity of every line of him growing deeper and sadder with every passing moment, "I didn't tell Stiles this, and I'd appreciate it if you didn't, either," he began, and Lydia felt her stomach drop in dread, "my...father...first put Kate Argent in my path...so that I would fall in love with her." Derek watched as Lydia's eyes grew wide, her cheeks paling in rage, "I'm the reason why the Hale clan burned. Why my family died as it did." 

"That's bullshit, and we both know it." Lydia snapped, "What is she, and how do I kill her?" she snarled. 

The bedroom door opened and Stiles shuffled out, still half-asleep and warm and flushed. He had the imprint of the pillows on his cheek and his hair stuck up on one side even worse than it naturally would. "You both fail at clandestine meetings." He grumbled, shuffling towards the loveseat and slumping into Derek's lap, dragging his blanket with him, "Who died, and who are we killing?"

"Camden Lahey---"

"Where's Scott? Also, where's Isaac?" Stiles mumbled, shifting and scowling that Derek wasn't as malleable as his pillows had been. Lydia froze, her eyes widening, "I swear to god, we'd all be dead if I left you all to take care of yourselves." Stiles pulled the blanket over his head where it rested on Derek's lap, his long limbs sprawled haphazardly over the half of the loveseat left. Lydia winced, having to concede that. 

"Erica and Boyd have Scott." Derek murmured, his hand under the blanket, and Lydia melted a little as she heard the soft, happy yawn that told her Derek was petting Stiles's hair, easing him back to sleep. It was something she was rarely even allowed to do, and Derek had just done it. She couldn't help feeling smug. "You should sleep, Lydia. I'll put Stiles back to bed, and I'll go looking for your missing friend---"

"You've never---" Stiles yawned even louder, making a high noise of protest, "You've never even met Isaac." 

"Do you have anything of his? Anything he's touched that would have his scent?"

Stiles groaned from the mound of blanket on Derek's lap, "That's gotta be gross. Being where I've been, smelling the things I've smelled, just imagining that, enhanced, makes my stomach turn." 

"Durian." Lydia yelled to him as she walked into Stiles's room looking for her bag, laughing at the face she knew he would be making. Stiles made a choking squawk of sound, and she laughed harder. "Stinky tofu!" 

"You injure me with your hypothetical stinky things!" 

"Your socks after that one job in New Orleans."

"That perfume Jackson gave you for your birthday that even he gags at the smell of." 

Lydia shuddered, wincing, "Jackson, after he's been doing his job as god of sport."

"As far as superpowers go, super-smelling? Not the one I'd pick." Stiles informed Derek, pulling down the blanket and looking up at him. Derek had something like laughter in his eyes, though he wouldn't let it onto his face, and Lydia returned with Isaac's sketchbook. "You don't have to do this. We do take care of our own." 

"And am I included in that statement, or do I need to earn my place?" Derek asked quietly, trailing his thumb over the hard angle of Stiles's cheek two passes over, fitting his arm under Stiles's shoulders and then the other under his knees, lifting him up with the blanket. 

Stiles let out a shrill half-shriek, clinging to Derek's shoulders desperately, "Putmedownputmedownputmedown!"

"He doesn't like heights when he has nothing stable to stand on, and he trusts no one, himself included." Lydia told him easily, sighing as she laid down, "Thank you, Derek. Just...thank you." Derek nodded to her, carrying Stiles into the bedroom as he shrilled and protested, then changed tactics and began threatening coming with him or finding Isaac himself. Lydia curled beneath her blanket, closing her eyes and sighing lightly, trying to hide her smile against the fabric of the couch back. She was asleep before Derek came back out, scenting the sketchbook and taking to the streets looking for the boy. Stiles slipped out an hour later, taking her guns with him and kissing her hair softly. 

Derek was holding a blood-soaked hand to Isaac's chest, blue flashing in his eyes when Stiles caught up to them. "He's not going to survive getting medical attention." Derek told him in a breathless rush, "I can turn him…" 

"Is he… _meant_ to be turned?" Stiles asked, holding Isaac still. 

"I don't _know_. I can't tell without the wolf, without my full powers, Scott just feels _wrong_." 

Stiles stopped breathing for a moment, "Do it." Stiles nodded, getting a better grip on Isaac and closing his eyes as Derek let his fangs run out and his eyes blaze blue as he bent down to Isaac's arm, biting his forearm. Isaac tensed and started to scream, but Stiles clamped down on his mouth, keeping him silent. "It's going to be okay, Isaac, you're going to be okay. Just breathe. Breathe with me." Stiles kept his breathing slow and steady, squeezing his eyes closed and taking his hand away from Isaac's mouth, reaching up to run his fingers through Isaac's hair gently, soothing. "You're going to be fine, _listen to me, Isaac_." 

Derek pulled closer, sitting around him, breathing and waiting as the bite healed and the long, ugly gashes in Isaac's chest closed, "This was Peter's doing." Derek growled. 

Stiles's hand reached back, shaking, closing on Derek's arm and grasping upwards, pulling himself around to lean against Derek's side, tucking his face into Derek's neck, "We'll get your wolf back, Derek. Don't you dare think about running." Derek reared back slightly, a question in his eyes about how the hell Stiles had known he was thinking of it. Stiles pinned him with dark, amber eyes, and Derek wrapped his arms around him, fierce and protective. He hadn't felt this way since he'd had his family; since he'd had a full pack, a solid chance at real happiness with family that wasn't blood, but bond. This was what being sure felt like, and it was his to keep if he could be strong enough this time around. 

Isaac was unconscious by the time his wounds had fully healed, and Derek could easily carry him through the streets, the hour so early they were practically dead. "Why did you come out after me?" Derek grunted, easing Isaac down onto the bed while Stiles coaxed Lydia to continue to sleep, "This could have been dangerous---"

"Your answer is in your question, wolf boy." Stiles snipped lightly, emphatically waving Derek out of the room and closing the door behind him. They had nowhere to go that wasn't full of people soundly asleep, so Stiles took Derek by the sleeve of his borrowed shirt, smiling at the too-small fit of his shirt and the too-huge draw of what had been Boyd's trousers, because Stiles was far too small around the waist for Derek to be able to steal a pair of those, too. Stiles led them out into the street, then down to the small olive grove Lydia had taken to sunbathing in, the small pond in the middle of it reflecting the change in the night's sky, the rocks beneath visible to a point until inky darkness swallowed the sight of them. 

"What does that even mean?" Derek grumbled, pulling off boots Erica had provided him with and sinking to a seat in the grass, hiking the legs of his trousers up to let his legs soak. 

"It means that this could have been dangerous, and I...I will never leave a man behind." Derek looked over at him, and Stiles had to wonder what it was like, heightened senses mixed with a complete lack of sensory input for _so long_. "Does it hurt? All of this? All the noise and the brightness?" 

"It...it did. But I found an anchor, I guess you could say. Something else to focus on." Derek looked down at where his legs disappeared into the water, and Stiles dropped down beside him, close enough that their arms were brushing, "The reason why it's so dangerous that Scott was bitten when he wasn't meant to be is because we could easily be monsters. Boyd, Erica, they were meant to be turned because the moment they were turned, they knew how to handle it; how to cope. The bite heightens base instincts, not just senses. Passions are raised, angers become rage...love, when it's real, becomes utter and complete devotion." Stiles's lips twitched, "It's difficult to control." Stiles nodded respectfully, biting his lower lip. "I guess an anchor is a good way to describe how we keep ourselves restrained. Things are easier when we shift, it's easier to cope with the sensory input and the instincts...shifting takes the edge off, and it's a temptation, but it's dangerous." 

"Dangerous because people who don't know how to control the wolf will give over entirely to it?" Derek looked at him sharply, and Stiles nodded into the vague distance, "Was Peter a wolf?"

Stiles had saved him, and for that, Derek needed to tell him anything he needed to know. "No, and he wasn't meant to be." Derek admitted softly, "He was the reason Ares chose the Hales. Peter had a gift for magic, a gift that stopped a war Ares was leading his men to slaughter for. Ares took offense to it, I think. He acted as though he was grateful, gave Laura and I to the Hales in order to protect them. They became our family, and then they died...all of them...as a lesson for me. Peter...he was in the flames. For so long, Laura and I thought him dead. Then...Laura heard of a way to kill Ares. A man, Harris's ancestor, I'd guess, was rumoured to have found a way. She came here to find him...Peter took her powers and murdered her: she was half-human, so it could be done...And then he baited me, took my wolf form, and…" Derek cut off, sounding choked, and Stiles reached out to touch him, pulling him down, wrapping his broad shoulders in Stiles's gangly arms, ducking his head under Stiles's chin. Stiles's long, clever hand wove through his hair, and Derek didn't know what it was to breathe for a few moments, struck dumb until the sensation of comfort and mate hit him in the chest, instinct driving him to draw his arms up and around Stiles's slim form as tightly as he could, trying to breathe with Stiles's lips against his temple, his humanly weak muscles holding him like he was holding him together and breaking him apart at the same time. 

"I used to have panic attacks...after my mother died, and Lydia thinks that the night she gave me the antidote to the flesh-eating mummy bite that I was hallucinating my pillow having fur and teeth, but that-that wasn't it…"Stiles's muscles tensed but the pressure of his hold didn't change, like he was bracing for impact but holding something too precious to crush, "I saw my dad...I saw him telling me it was my fault she died. That my being...my being different, my being such a burden...he didn't want me...and I'd killed her and I was slowly killing him." Stiles almost felt like he was in the middle of a panic attack now, but the army had beaten that out of him. Derek's huge hands were on his back and cradling his head, his fingers brushing through the hair at his temple. "She'd send me home if she knew."

Derek knew asking was redundant: that he already kind of knew the answer, but he asked anyway, "Why don't you let her?" 

"Because I'm covered in scars, Derek. She has three. One on her forehead from where she ran full-tilt into a fence to get away from a rabid dog when we were kids, which was the first time we met, and I carried her home; one on her right wrist from when Jackson tried to break up with her, and a banshee wanted to turn her, which is how I got the claw marks over my heart when she tried to rip it from my chest for bringing Jackson to her to stop the transformation; and a bullet hole, over her heart. I was half-dead and getting all-dead faster than Isaac just was, and she picked herself up out of a pool of her own blood with a bullet in her heart to stop the bastard trying to kill me. The bullet's still there, and, technically, any moment could be her last." Stiles sighed, leaning into him---melting into him, really, and Derek couldn't be happier with the wolf practically purring in joy at the contact if he tried. "I won't give up on her, or on the life she's built for the both of us." 

"I don't like that answer." 

"I don't like being the brains of an operation that includes a woman thirteen times as brilliant as I am, but we all have our crosses to bear." Stiles sighed primly, grinning after a moment. Derek scowled, shaking his head slightly, but Stiles could hear the stutter in his breathing that almost might have been a laugh, and he counted it as a win. "Anyway, who did Lydia want to kill back at the hotel? I'm supposed to make sure she doesn't, or doesn't get caught, it's part of the contract." Derek could hear the teasing tone in his voice, but he didn't smile. 

"Kate Argent." 

Stiles's eyes lit and then went dull, "I trust in Lydia." He nodded slowly, and Derek had to bite back a growl, his hands seizing Stiles's shoulders harshly. 

"You're not going back into that Hell. She's trapped there---" 

"Not nearly as trapped as you'd think." Kate chuckled from just higher up the hill of olive trees, the sound of a gun cocking having Stiles reflexively try to step between Derek and the bullet while Derek grabbed him, curling over and around him to shield from the bullet when he could've easily moved himself out of its way...and left Stiles in its path. Derek grunted at the bullet got him in the arm, stumbling while Stiles shifted, gripped him, and started running. 

The precarious footing of the hillside was only kept from being their undoing by the cover the trees was affording them, the watery light just before dawn helping Stiles to see. The weight of Lydia's gun was suddenly heavy against Stiles's thigh, reminding him of its presence, and Stiles drew the handgun in the darkness, taking an easy aim in the middle of the thickest nestle of trees, where he'd heard the shots from, trusting his finger when he pulled the trigger, the breathless moment before, during, and after the shot, the moment when every marksman stopped so much as breathing for fear of what it'd do to the shot, registering a thunk of impact and the tumble of dropped footing. Stiles's hand curled around Derek's, shoving them both off from their cover point, racing for the next and listening with pricked ears for the sound of Kate's chase, or for another bullet. "Where were you hit?" Stiles breathed, worry registering as Derek's breathing picked up worse than his did, something that shouldn't have been happening. Derek lifted his arm, the fabric of his borrowed shirt beginning to get stained with blood. "That shouldn't be happening…" Stiles bit out, pissed and protective and ready to kill Kate Argent himself. 

They ran through the streets until Derek had to lean on Stiles, his face growing pale and shining in the light of dawn with sweat that shouldn't be there. Stiles nearly gagged on the panic and fear in his chest, watching Derek as he struggled to catch his breath and stay upright, his face pinched and his eyes closed. Stiles half-carried him into the hotel, asking for supplies from the staff that one would usually ask for in the case of food poisoning. The manager of the hotel opened his room for him, and confirmed what they needed would be there in a moment, seeing a sick client instead of a shot client only because Stiles was hiding the blood between them. Lydia struggled into sitting, her eyes huge as Stiles shuffled Derek along until he could simply collapse into the loveseat they'd occupied just two hours before. 

"Kate shot him in the arm, there's some sort of poison. I need a tourniquet and the thinnest of the pliers from my toolkit." Stiles ordered quickly, the bedroom doors opening to Isaac's pale, nervous face, his hands shaking as he handed Stiles the kit immediately, Lydia bustling past with a reassuring squeeze to the boy's shoulder. Stiles slit through the shirt, stripping away the fabric entirely and watching with hard, angry eyes as black lines of poison spiralled out from the wound, the smell of decay only a hint for now, though it'd be putrid to Derek and Isaac both. The door to the hallway outside burst open, Danny looking wild and worried as he crossed to the group, his arms laden with the supplies Stiles had requested of the hotel. 

"I just heard you guys were back by finding out that Camden's dead, and now Stiles is operating on a gunshot victim?!" 

"Danny, my darling boy, you've been with Stiles and I before, so you know when I ask you if you really want know that the answer is…?"

"No." Danny grunted, shaking his head and dropping to his knees with the supplies, tying the tourniquet Lydia handed him while Stiles carefully reached into the wound with the pliers, being as delicate with the wound as he possibly could. Derek bared his teeth, snarling at the pain, his eyes flashing between the blue of the beast and his own murky green-grey as Stiles slowly drew the bullet from the wound, dropping it into the small wash basin. Stiles's hand pressed down against Derek's heart, his eyes blazing into Derek's. 

"You're going to calm down and you're going to breathe with me, because you need to slow your heart rate to slow the poison, okay?" Stiles pressed Derek's fingers to the skin of his throat, at his pulse, and he breathed even and deep, his eyes blazing into Derek's until Derek's body jerked slightly, the tension drawing slowly away. Stiles nodded, pleased, not looking away from Derek's eyes as Danny wiped the blood away with a wet cloth, dabbing lightly at the blackened sludge closest to the wound, slowly oozing out. He sniffed once, turning to look at Lydia. 

"Wolfsbane." 

Derek twitched, his brows drawing together though he didn't seem capable of looking away from Stiles, "We need to figure out what kind," Derek tensed, almost bucking in the pain, seething, and Stiles gripped one of his forearms and his shoulder, his hands tense like he'd pull Derek into his lap then and there, "and then burn some of it, put the ash in the wound. Only way it'll heal." 

"You said it was Kate?" Lydia confirmed, "How likely do you think it is that she'd have more ammo in her rooms?" Stiles shot her a look; it was their best shot. 

"We need to talk to Scott, see if he can get Allison to find out." Stiles muttered, motioning Isaac to help him while he took one side, heaving Derek's heavily muscled arm over his shoulders while Isaac took the other, the both of them hefting him and heading for the bed. "You know, we need more beds. Also, we need to stop sharing beds because of life-threatening situations." 

"No offense, Stiles, but I'd rather we not share beds." 

"I agree entirely, Isaac, I was talking about Derek and I." Stiles groaned as they got Derek laying down, tucking him in and ignoring the glare. "How do we get in touch with Erica and Boyd to get Scott?" 

"He shouldn't be seeing his girlfriend---"

"Derek...ask me to watch you live with this much pain. I dare you." Stiles growled, his eyes flashing with anger and power. Derek subsided, frowning and sullen. "We can stop it before it goes terminal, we're damn well going to." 

"Boyd and Erica will be here soon enough because I've been hurt. I doubt they'll bring Scott, though." Derek grunted, and Stiles nodded once. 

"Lydia, take the bullet and give it to Scott to see if it'll match. Go with him, go heavy. I shot Kate, I don't know where, but I know it hit, so keep an eye out. I don't know what she is, but it seems like she's damn near unstoppable." Lydia bobbed her head, Danny carrying the basin in along with the neat stack of clean cloths. Stiles pressed his long, delicately boned hand to Derek's forehead, then his cheek, his eyes warm and determined and fierce. He filled the basin about an inch full of water, bringing it to the bed and carefully dragging the soft material over the clammy skin of Derek's forehead, watching his fevered eyes as he cleaned away the sheen of sweat. "Danny, you remember that old witch doctor in India?" 

"I might still have some of the tea he used to slow that paralytic still in my bag, I'll go check and be back." Danny squeezed Stiles's shoulder, dashing out of the bedroom and closing the door again behind him, giving them privacy. 

Stiles's hand folded around Derek's, lifting it off the bedspread to lay against his chest as he moved up to sit on the edge. "You and I being together is dangerous." Stiles began softly, his fingers brushing over Derek's cheek with a gentleness Derek had seldom been on the receiving end of, "I don't care." Stiles told him. "You're stuck with me, sourwolf." Derek grunted softly at the nickname, and Stiles smiled a slow, private smile, shrugging, "I think it works, frowny. Talk to me about changing it when you can't stop smiling." Stiles's thumb played at the corner of Derek's downturned mouth, the look of a bitter, scowling seriousness taking shape on Stiles's features until it was a blatant mock of Derek's expression. Derek rolled his eyes, and Stiles broke into a grin. "Show me your fangs? Please?" Stiles asked, intent on Derek's mouth. Derek's eyes turned blue as he did as Stiles asked, watching him carefully as he examined Derek's teeth. "I've seen bigger and badder sets of chompers, but it's still kind of impressive." Stiles's long body spread out against his, leaning lightly against his side and bringing their faces closer together, the warmth and peace of lying like this making something in Derek relax despite never having realized he was tense to begin with. Stiles's thumb brushed against the blunt front of his teeth, mindful of the edge, and Derek felt his fangs retract instantly, his head turning to look at Stiles's face properly where he propped it on an elbow beside him. Derek's eyes were soft, his mouth still slightly parted, his gaze, forever so intense, flicking from Stiles's eyes to his lips and back again, drawing him in, making Stiles want. 

The door swung open and Danny bustled in, then noticed the arrangement on the bed, and proceeded to turn a splotchy, unhealthy red. "Oh, you've got to be kidding me?! The first viably hot guy I've met this decade, and...Just...Stiles, you are a horrible person." 

Stiles chuckled, he couldn't help it, his eyes closing and his nose wrinkling slightly, adorably, as he slid off the bed, the moment gone, "I know, man, keeps me awake at night." Stiles took the teapot from Danny's hands, along with the tiny cup Danny had been given by a monk in Vietnam. Huffing, Danny rolled his eyes and left the room with an impatient little wave over his shoulder and the order to call if anything else was needed. Stiles drew the chair up, carefully and precisely pouring Derek his measure of tea, resuming a seat on the edge of the bed to help Derek upright enough to drink it. "This is going to be one of the worst things you've ever tasted." Stiles told him in no uncertain terms, drawing the basin closer because he knew from experience what came next. Derek downed the thimble-sized cup of tea in one swallow, his brow knitting for a moment before his body seized. He curled around the basin, coughing up black sludge as Stiles rubbed his back consolingly, his fingers turning alarmingly white in the fabric of Stiles's shirtfront. When the convulsive wretching had stopped, Derek slumped, bonelessly letting Stiles coax him back against the bed, feeling limp and drained, but better, somehow. Stiles wiped his forehead again before cleaning his lips, offering a drink of water and holding Derek's head up to swallow it. "Luckily for you, I'm the one with the bedside manner." Stiles chuckled humourlessly, his eyes worried still. He pushed away a curl of hair damp on Derek's forehead, his hand caressing over the side of his face as he watched Derek through unfathomable eyes, "How do you feel?" 

"B-Better." Derek croaked thickly, and Stiles nodded once. 

"We're going to have to do that again in an hour if Lydia and Scott don't have our cure by then." Stiles muttered apologetically, his thumb sweeping over the fragile skin under Derek's eye, almost bruised-looking, "Sleep for now, Derek. I'll keep you safe." Derek's eyes fluttered closed, the dry press of warm lips on his temple the last thing he felt before everything else fell away. 

Stiles laid beside him, letting Lydia worry about keeping Scott in line and Danny fuss with the details that didn't really register to him, the details that were pushed away to make sure Derek kept from an eternity of pain and convulsions, black veins and poison. 

Stiles traced his fingers over the lines of Derek's face, peaceful and soft as he stared at Derek with the kind of feeling he'd only ever seen in his mother's eyes, soft and strong and protective and fiercely possessive. "I'm sorry for all you've lost." He whispered, watching with rapt attention to make sure Derek wouldn't wake, "I'm sorry that it's me now. You deserve better." Stiles traced the tip of his finger over the straight line from Derek's forehead to the tip of his nose. "You deserve more. I barely have anything to offer." Ducking his head against Derek's shoulder, Stiles laid his hand over Derek's heart, the pulse steady against his palm, "But I'll give you everything I can." 

There was a small gagging sound from the doorway, and Stiles was up and standing in a heartbeat, Derek still asleep on the bed. Ares smirked at him sickeningly, and Stiles refused to think of the resemblance between father and son. "It's sweet, how you think you'll survive." Ares mocked, "Even cuter that you think you'll help _him_ to survive." 

"I'm going to live, not just survive." Stiles murmured coldly, striding forwards to stand completely between Ares and Derek, protective and powerful in his rage. "Leave. I was blessed by shamans and priests, I've helped gods and witch doctors, and I will be the one to _crush_ you. _Leave_." 

Ares let a moment of uncertainty flash through his near-black eyes before the mask of cocky enthrallment fit over his features, giving him the gall to lean forwards a little, "You are a little firecracker, aren't you?" 

"Touch him, and you'll realize just how explosive I can be." Stiles threatened, voice steady as his hands had been shooting Kate. 

"Mmm," Ares purred, seductive and dangerous, "you were there, weren't you? When the whole world exploded and blood rained out of the sky. It was...breathtaking." Ares took a full step closer, and Stiles stood even taller, firmer, his eyes blazing and his mouth sneering with a viciousness he hadn't ever had before. "Don't you ever wonder why you survived? Why you were left to carry the memory of all that blood and pain and death in your blackened excuse for a soul?" Stiles lifted his chin, defiant and beautiful. 

"I survived for this, Ares. I survived to bring you down in a blaze of agony and defeat with your son at my side and my heart completely his. _You don't own me_ , and you never did: I didn't go to war for war. I went to war for _love_." Ares snarled at him, his features twisting, and where Derek could be inhuman and beautiful like this, Ares was horror through and through. Stiles smirked smoothly, closing his eyes for just a moment as Ares was about to pounce, to kill. Belief flooded through him, peaceful and absolute, becoming power, and when Stiles opened his eyes, Ares was staring down the length of Hephaestus's enchanted sword, the one that could actually maim a god no matter what their real weakness was. It couldn't kill him, but Stiles could hurt him, and the gods actively feared damage they'd be forced to live with for eternity. 

Ares took a hasty step back, nearly falling over, and Stiles would bask in the pride of that moment for the rest of his life, watching as Ares vanished in a red flash of light. Stiles set the sword carefully beside the bureau, quietly pleased that after a year and a half, the sword he'd pulled from the stone still came to him when he called for it. "That was stupid." Derek told him, voice weak and his muscles straining with trying to move. 

"No, that was bloody fucking badass. Lay down, before you pull something." Stiles placed his hand firmly on Derek's chest and pressed gently until Derek collapsed against the bed, glowering up at him. "Derek, I've been fighting my own battles and everyone else's since long before your gorgeous everything walked into my life, and I've never liked Ares or anything he's stood for. There's no...there's no _wisdom_ in the gods around here. You not included, because you're not _from_ around here, don't give me that look." Stiles was scowling harder than Derek was, his lips a straight line, mouth tucked just slightly at the corners. Derek was pretty sure he'd made that exact expression before. "I'd rather we got the hell out of Dodge, but Kate Argent must die, and I've never not seen something through." 

"I'm staying here with you. This _is_ my fight." Derek ground out. 

Stiles smiled briefly, just a tug of his lips, and he crossed to Derek, running the backs of his fingers over Derek's cheek, studying the black lines under Derek's skin for a moment, "Why didn't you run? You could've." 

Derek raised his chin, his eyes flashing with steel, "You wouldn't." Stiles seemed amused by this, as if the thought of anyone else being as stupid and self-sacrificing as he was was ludicrous. "Wolfsbane is my weakness, sure. But if it'd been you to get shot, even in the arm, you would be dead. Wolfsbane is poisonous to humans, too." Stiles blinked, looking down at the wound again. 

"Ironwoood is Ares's. The Morrigan is mountain ash." Derek grunted, and Stiles levelled a question simply with his eyes. Derek wondered how someone could be so easily expressive. 

"I'm vulnerable to mountain ash, too." Stiles nodded, expression dark and unhappy. 

The vulnerabilities of the gods were the only things that could breach the power protecting them from age, sickness, and death. Where they could push out a bullet just as easily as it had went it, if there was poison to it, there was no way for them to get it out but to burn a piece of what had injured them and rub the ash in the wound. Stiles made a mental note to start carrying samples of every kind of wolfsbane there was and mountain ash for good measure, his hand sliding down to fold around Derek's. "The other wolves will be as well?" 

"Mountain ash will kill them instantly, wolfsbane will act as a poison, and will kill them if it hits the heart. Other than that, the only thing that can kill them is fire." 

Derek's eyelids were drooping, his voice teetering into slurring, and Stiles had a moment of panic, cupping his face between his hands, shaking him gently, trying to wake him. "Oh, don't kill me for this." Stiles breathed, fisting his hand and punching him in the face as hard as he could. Derek grunted awake, turning as Lydia banged into the room holding the bullet, tossing it to Stiles. 

"Lighter?" 

"Don't need it." Stiles grit out, pulling the bullet apart and dumping the contents on the marble top of the bedside table, pressing his fingertips to his lips and whispering a flame to life on his fingertips, setting it to the combination on the table. It burst into a plume of smoke, Derek gathered up the ash in shaky hands, pressing it into the bullethole. Derek tried and failed to hold back the cry of pain, arching and writhing on the bed, gasping out and collapsing down, whimpering. Stiles was at his side immediately, watching the black veins disappear as he sliced through the tourniquet in one movement, feeling Derek's pulse and temperature. 

"When did you learn that trick?" Lydia demanded. 

Stiles shrugged, a small smile tugging at his lips, "It was in one of the books I looked through in Deaton's library...and I think I just realized how Kate could get out." 

"Deaton." Lydia sighed, closing her eyes and sighing through her nose, shaking her head.

"He wouldn't be able to leave the city with his powers, though. I'm the only one that could break the seal on the city." 

"Kate...she took a vial of Midir's blood before locking him in the city." Derek's voice nearly broke on the name, and Lydia's breath caught with sympathetic pain. 

"That'd be a one-time-use key, though. She wouldn't be able to get out again." Stiles muttered, thoughtful, "Derek, was Kate ever in league with your father?" Lydia shot Derek a look that blatantly said "'fess up", but Stiles missed it, lost in thought. 

"Yes, she was." 

"You can turn people into almost-gods...almost immortal...what if that's what your father would do? Ares is one of the Old Ones, and Kate's been around as long as you have, so something's stopped her from aging…"

"If she kills you, she gets your godhood." Lydia breathed. 

"She'd be beautiful and strong and powerful enough to take down whatever she wanted." 

The look on Derek's face was horrified and angry and remote, his eyes distant, and it made Stiles want to curl up with him, around him. "Deaton was smart, though, why the hell would he go in with us, and why the hell wouldn't he follow us back out?" 

Stiles perked up, knowledge flashing in his eyes, "Lydia, all that treasure...all the knowledge...the magic that swallows it all has to come from somewhere. What if it came from someone. It's within Deaton's nature to save treasures about to be lost. He saved you and I because we were dumped in the city, and because clinging on to me brought him back out of the city. But what, or who, would have sent him in in the first place?" 

"What are you thinking?"

"Remember those graverobbers in Bangladesh? The ones that were working for that lost art dealer? Half of what he was selling should have been half the world over---"

" _Lost_."

"Deaton, the others like him, what if they work for someone like that demonic bastard?" 

"Then he would've been sent in...to retrieve anything of value in the city. Probably because the few survivors would've wanted what was left." Lydia breathed. 

Stiles breathed out, closing his eyes for a moment. "Deaton said he's part magical, part mechanical. So, he would have had a specific purpose drilled into him first, before any kind of personality like the one we saw." 

"The darkness doesn't exactly breed personality." Derek pointed out, and Lydia had to work not to laugh, because his personality was definitely lackluster, and they could both see that. 

"No, but the knowledge would. Deaton sees and hears. He senses things. If he could absorb the knowledge, then maybe he could build himself a personality, he's meant to grow anyway." Stiles made part of that sound like a question, but Derek had nothing else to go on, so he couldn't argue it. Stiles prodded at Derek's side, waving him further onto the bed and slumping down beside him, scowling pensively, though he really didn't have the face for a scowl. 

"Coffee." Lydia muttered, as if confirming something, looking slightly out of her mind as she wandered out of the bedroom. 

"Should I leave you to rest?" Stiles asked quietly. 

Derek shook his head, and Stiles leaned down against his shoulder, staring forward, completely lost in thought. Isaac and Scott came to linger in the doorway, and Derek took a deep breath, "Isaac, you okay?" The boy nodded, and Derek relaxed infinitesimally, "Scott?" 

Scott looked furious at the sight of Stiles comfortably leaning against Derek's side, "What are we doing here, Stiles? You got Derek out. Something killed Camden, and, as much as he was a bastard, it shouldn't have happened like that---We should be gone."

Stiles shifted slightly, cocking his head to one side and staring at his best friend. "So, let me get this straight...you want to, what? Leave here? While your friend's father was murdered, your friend was attacked, and a second beast that's taken you as victim has been unleashed on the city?" His face set, angry and defiant, and Scott's eyes flashed gold. Derek was up and between them before either of them could track the movement, his hand restraining against Stiles's chest where he'd launched himself forward, but his attention on Scott. 

"I am a monster now, because of him!" Scott exploded, Isaac grabbing him from behind and Derek becoming an immovable wall in front of him. 

Stiles wanted to smack him. After all they'd been through, all they'd pulled through, _together_ , that was so much worse than this, Scott wanted to give up now. Stiles couldn't understand it. "What you are; what Isaac is; what Derek is...it doesn't make you a monster. If you want to be a monster now, fine. If this is the thing that turns you from being a good man to a bad, so be it. But know this, to your soul: it is no one's doing but yours if you become a monster just because you're different now." Stiles's voice was pitched low, soft and steady, not even angry in tone. It was more powerful than a roar, though. The quiet, deadly rage that paled his face and left his eyes burning and dark, his heartbeat against Derek's palm hard but steady. "Man up, Scott!" Stiles slipped under Derek's arm, dodging him neatly and pressing into Scott's space, his size managing to loom. "This mess is ours to clean up. You can leave, but don't you dare try to take me with you. Not now." Stiles growled, his eyes flint-hard and enraged. Derek pulled Stiles back into his arms as Scott started to snarl, letting Erica and Boyd close over Scott and get him out of there. Stiles was tense, almost fighting Derek's grip, the fight only going out of him once Derek had wrapped his arms completely around him, holding onto him tight, hugging. Stiles fought it for a moment, then relaxed into putting his arms back around Derek, "You are no more monstrous than any human on the street." Stiles muttered, his breathing hitching in odd places, like he was running a marathon. Derek wondered at it, wondered at what Stiles was thinking of to make him react like this. He also knew with a bone-deep disappointment that he didn't really want to find out. "I'm sorry this was such a botched job of a rescue attempt." 

Derek snorted, shaking his head, "I'm sorry you had to have a rescue attempt at all." One day, Derek resolved, he'd tell Stiles all about Midir and his love affair. When he had to the words to put all of it into, he'd speak them. But, just then, he couldn't find the words, didn't think they even existed. "We'll solve this mess. I'm not leaving your side until we do." Stiles looked up at him sharply, and Derek could see it settle into him that this had the chance not to be as permanent as it'd been made out to be. 

Stiles ducked his head in a nod, pushing his way out of Derek's space and turning away, "When the time comes...choose for you. If you can't do it, don't try." 

"Stiles---" 

Derek cut off as two polite, quick raps on the closed bedroom door interrupted him, and Lydia opened it, staring at Stiles's back, "I just had a thought…" Lydia murmured, "Kate's trying to get Ares to make her a god. What goddess of the hunt do we know that'll take offence to that?" The words were quiet, unassuming, but the gleam in her eyes spoke of how she knew what she'd been interrupting, and that she was protecting Stiles. 

Stiles turned back sharply, nodding, "Artemis will be on the Hunt this time of year." 

"Yes, because that's really a deterrent for us." Lydia sighed her eyes dancing with amusement and her voice dripping with careless irony. 

Stiles grinned, hard and pointed, "I can get through the Hunt and be back within a week." 

"You're going to massacre them, aren't you?" Lydia purred, openly amused now, leaning against the doorframe as Stiles darted around the room, collecting much different weapons than the ones Lydia used, her gun and hunting knives looking almost plebeian next to the strange assortment of blades, chains, and mechanized bows Stiles dragged out from places scattered around the room. 

"As much as gods can be massacred...yes." Stiles answered breathlessly, hefting a hammer etched with the symbol of Thor as he slid the sword he'd summoned into place in the small roll of an arsenal that looked like a regular bag. 

"Thor forged that hammer in the image of his own for a worthy champion who could set his brother's children at peace." Lydia murmured to Derek quietly, "Jormungand was three years ago, Sleipnir about a month after that, and last year Fenrir tried to take a bite out of Stiles." Stiles swept up a red cloak, the smell of jasmine and mint hitting Derek with the shivering breathlessness of good magic, "But Stiles has never been incapable of running with the best of wolves." Lydia slid forwards, planting a kiss on Stiles's forehead, "Good luck, little brother." Stiles grinned at her, eyes flashing with mischief as he flicked out the cloak, whirling it around his shoulders. 

"Thanks, but I don't think I'll need it." The crimson fabric settled around him, and Stiles flicked the hood up, disappearing in a wink of white light as he did. Derek stormed forward, snarling, and Lydia clucked her tongue at him, rolling her eyes. 

" _You'd_ just slow him down. Now, come, I'm betting you'll know better than anyone what Kate's movements will be, you're the only one here old enough to remember." 

It took five days before Stiles reappeared, smeared with ink in the design of fire, but shaped like feathers. He looked like a phoenix in human form, smirking and laughing with his arm around a woman with blood-red hair and eyes the colour of the night's sky. Artemis had her quiver and bow strapped to her back, a red bandana around her arm, and a subtle red tinge to the leathers she wore, her armour the feminine version of Stiles's, both with silver detailing. Artemis pursed her lips, quirking one eyebrow as she looked Derek up and down, "And _this_ is why you're not in my order, Stiles? Really?" 

"He's also why the Morrigan was snapping at my heals so intently." Recognition flashed over Artemis's cunning features, a dimple forming in her cheek as a half smile slid over her face, "Artemis, Derek Hale. Derek, the goddess Artemis." Stiles turned, bending to kiss Lydia's cheek as she slipped out of the bathroom behind him, grinning. 

"Artemis, I---" Derek began, but Lydia cut him off, sweeping Artemis into a hug like an old girlfriend as Stiles disappeared through the bathroom door, loosening the scabbard strapped to his back. Derek darted forwards, making to follow him with his stomach twisting in unease. Stiles had half-disarmed himself by the time Derek pushed the ajar door fully open, his cunning amber eyes sliding to meet Derek's in the reflection of the bathroom mirror. 

"I trust Lydia told you what the Hunt was?" Stiles swept a damp cloth over the curve of his collarbone, wiping moon-pale skin clean. 

"She said it was a glorified game of tag where gods hunt down a single target while trying to pick off each other in teams." Stiles smiled at that, tilting his chin up to wash his neck clean. 

"Close enough." Stiles looked at him in the reflection again, raising both eyebrows, "So what brings you in here?" Stiles shrugged out of the top half of his armour, setting it on the ground and taking the cloth to his chest, the ink covering him completely, it seemed. 

"You could have been hurt---" 

"You're right. But it's not your job to protect me anymore than it is for you to protect Lydia. You would've slowed me down, so I left you here to protect the person who loves me most. She did help save you, after all, she should get at least half the recognition for that." Stiles cleared a singular path from his shoulder to his hip, sighing slightly, "Now, if you don't mind, this'll be done faster if I bathe." Stiles dropped the cloth into the sink, stepping forward in a way that had Derek reflexively stepping back, and Lydia snagged the back of his trousers, pulling him out of the bathroom and closing the door behind him, reeling him around to where Artemis was laughing at him from the sitting room and Lydia looked somewhere between threatening and amused. 

"You, dear boy, are so utterly screwed." Artemis laughed, shaking her wild curls as she turned back to the research Lydia had compiled. 

Stiles emerged from the bathroom not long after Artemis and Lydia had settled into working out a plan in the sitting room, Derek sitting on the bed waiting for him, unable to think. Stiles looked at him with sad, heavily-lidded eyes, his mouth set and his skin pale, "What can I do for you, sourwolf?" 

Derek watched him hobble to his wardrobe, extracting his nightclothes rather than anything proper, "You're hurt." 

"Wrenched my ankle. I'll wrap it, it'll heal." Stiles muttered dismissively. He looked over at Derek expectantly, shrugging when Derek simply watched him, and dropping his towel to pull some sleepwear on. "Lydia, do you have another room, or are we sharing the bed?" Stiles called through the mostly-closed door. 

"Derek can take my room, you, Artemis and I can sleep in this one. Or Derek and you can share, and Artemis and I will take my room." 

"I think that'd be perfect, Lydia." Artemis grinned. "Stiles, I love you, but you understand…" 

Stiles sighed, "Yep. Perfectly. Have a nice night, ladies." Stiles pulled back the covers on the side of the bed Derek wasn't sitting on, grumbling. He settled, huffed out a breath, and then was squawking as suddenly the heavy blankets covering him were wrenched back, Derek tossing them to the unoccupied side of the bed and sitting down at his legs, glowering. "What the hell do you think you're doing?!" 

"You wrenched your ankle. It needs to be wrapped up for it to heal, and you failed to do that." Derek snapped, his hand curving around Stiles's knee and lifting until his leg was angled for Derek to work with from where he was sitting. 

"It's fine---I'm…" Derek glared him into forgetting what he was going to say, but that didn't stop Stiles from just trying to take his leg out of Derek's grip. Derek growled lowly, his hand tightening around Stiles's calf, even though he had to know he was just being ridiculous. "Derek, my ankle's fine---" 

"You don't have the same healing factor I do, it needs to be taken care of---"

"You don't need to be the one to take care of it!" 

"You're not doing it, so yes, I do!" 

"You have no leg to stand on here, dogbreath! I'm a perfectly capable, rational adult who's been in charge of my own damn life for _years_ , and I don't need you to be my keeper by some unjustified sense of pity and debt. I saved you, I got you out of the hole you were trapped in, you aren't the first person I've risked my neck for, nor will you be the last, and since there's nothing particularly special about any of this, let alone me, you're going to let go of my leg and let me sleep, because I am sick and tired of letting people take what they want over getting what I want." 

"What the hell is your problem?! You talk and act like your life is expendable, like it'd be some joke to those you left behind that they lost you because you're not worth anything. You're fucking _wrong_!" Derek shouted at him, his chest jumping with every breath, like a wild animal cornered and ready to fight. "You don't get it! I didn't just spend millenia in the darkness, Stiles, that wasn't all it was. I was locked in that room, trapped, forced to l-listen...forced to listen while they beat him, while they _raped_ him, and then left him to die, slowly and painfully, with his lungs full of his own blood and the fever making him so delusional by the end he couldn't even remember it was me in the darkness with him, but he kept telling me he loved me." Derek was shaking like he was coming apart, the roar of his words toning slowly down until he was barely breathing them, and Stiles felt sick to his core at what Derek had suffered. "I could hear his heart stop, and I could smell the disease in his blood." 

Stiles's hands were on Derek's shoulders. He rocked up onto his knees, wrapping his arms around Derek's neck and holding him fiercely. Derek pulled him forwards, into his lap, and Stiles came willingly, steadying him as he shook and pulling his fingers through Derek's hair. Stiles could feel the wet of Derek's tears against his neck and shoulder, and he rubbed Derek's shoulders, soothing him but making no effort to hush him, or stop the wracking sobs that came once he'd started, a human's entire lifetime worth of grief; every single person he'd ever loved had been brutally and horrifically taken from him. Stiles pressed his lips to Derek's temple, "I know...Death doesn't happen to you, it happens to everyone around. To all the people left standing at your funeral, trying to figure out how they're going to live the rest of their lives now without you in it." Stiles rested his forehead against Derek's neck, "I know." He whispered. Derek stood, Stiles wrapping around him as tightly as he could, fisting his hand in Derek's hair as they laid down. They fell asleep like that, wrapped up together, and woke up the same way. 

Derek was the first to wake up, watching Stiles's eyelashes flutter, his nose wiggling as he started to wake up, swallowing and moaning, stretching against Derek's body and pressing into his warmth. Derek's arms tightened around him, and he kissed Stiles awake, resting their foreheads together, "I don't know if I can do this." 

Stiles brushed the backs of his fingers over Derek's cheek and jaw, "I've never had anything like this, Derek. I have no measurement, and I'll take whatever you're willing to give me." Derek leaned in, kissing him slow and soft then. 

"I refuse to hurt you." 

Stiles smiled, cupping his cheek and kissing him again. "I'll never see you hurt again if I can do anything about it." Stiles rubbed his forehead and down his cheek, laughing. 

Derek drew closer, laying his head against Stiles's shoulder and closing his eyes, letting Stiles's long, clever fingers petting through his hair lull him into a state of boneless relaxation. 

"I want to do something with you...when all this is over, I want to go back to Ireland before heading to America. Midir should have a proper goodbye." Derek's fingers swept through the hair behind his ear, and he smiled just slightly, sad but thankful. 

"You know, I'm no expert what with being a virgin goddess and all, but I'm pretty sure wild, hot, monkey sex is not supposed to sound like that." Artemis shot Lydia a look over the top of her specs, her hair black and cropped messily short and her lips crimson now. Lydia snickered, shrugging. She leaned back as Stiles walked around her couch, grasping her shoulder in good morning and leaning over to kiss her forehead. 

"Please tell me you two did actually leave this room, because I have it on good authority that this is right were you were when I went to bed last night." 

"We did, yes. I tucked Lydia into bed, then I terrorized the town a little." 

"Shot some unfaithful men?" 

"Put fire in the hearts of scorned women. My usual duties. And I managed to help with three births. I'm very pleased." Artemis smiled at him as he collected two cups of coffee, observing with hawkish clarity, "You two are really _quite_ tied up together, aren't you?" Stiles looked from himself to Derek, questioning, "He healed you. Last night. Your ankle, and that broken rib you were trying to hide from us. And you healed him, if only a little. He's not as engulfed in darkness as he was even last night. Keep up the good work, gentlemen." 

Lydia threw her own appraising looks at them both, refusing to let herself flinch at Stiles hiding a broken rib. Derek, on the other hand, looked positively stormy, and she felt almost chipper because of that. "And with that, you're off to bed?" 

Artemis smiled, nodding, "I rise for the moon, you know that." Throwing a wink at the men, Artemis stood and slipped out of the door into the hotel proper. 

"I'm pretty sure she and Hecate have something going on." Lydia sighed, relaxing as Stiles flopped into the seat beside her. 

"Things in mirror not as virginal as they appear?" Lydia poked him purposefully in the ribs, and he winced, rubbing his side. Throwing a pout her way, he switched couches to sit with Derek, " _He's_ not abusive." Stiles stuck his tongue out, his nose crinkled, and Derek hit him upside the head, completely deadpan. "What was that for?!"

"You know what that was for!" Derek snapped, pointing at Stiles's chest. Stiles groaned, rolling his eyes. Derek stretched his arm across the back of the couch, Stiles settling into his side lazily as they drank their coffee, "What is that?" Derek murmured, moving the sleeve of Stiles's shirt to reveal a bracelet on his wrist. 

"Warrior beads. These were blessed by a medicine man in Indonesia to give me the strength to defeat any enemy, all I need is the will." 

Derek's eyebrows quirked, "The will?" 

"I have to want to beat them. He told me he could entrust the beads to me because I've seen enough violence and death that...I don't want to dole it out as freely as some would." 

Derek's fingers worried the beads, his head turned and angled so that Stiles fit perfectly to rest his forehead against Derek's temple, his eyes closed. "That kind of wisdom hurts." 

Stiles tilted his chin, kissing Derek's cheek, "It's worth it, to know what you'd do for love." He nuzzled into Derek's cheek for a little while, smiling almost evilly, "And now that Lydia is practically squirming because we're being sickeningly adorable together, let's make her walk through everything she knows while she just wants to squeal and hug us both." 

Lydia's head was in her hands, her hair a waterfall of red between her face and them, her body curled up under her, and Derek cracked a grin, shaking his head and rubbing Stiles's knee fondly. Her voice was muffled behind her palms, "I hate you."

"Nah, you love us. You wish to smother us in love and affection because you have a soft spot for adorable things and we are just the cutest damn thing to happen to you since puppies." Stiles sighed, shrugging with an idiot grin on his face and a mocking wriggle to his nose. She scowled daggers, folding her arms across her chest like it was a defensive manoeuver. The only saving grace was that Derek was beginning to look slightly uncomfortable. 

"Isaac, actually was meant to be bitten, so he's far better than Scott at control. Unfortunately, Scott got out and Chris Argent's realized that his daughter is dating a werewolf. Whether or not she knows is hard to say, but it's a matter of Chris's Code that Scott's not being hunted by them at the moment. He's still being an idiot. I think it's down to the fact that his precious girlfriend is a hunter's daughter. The boy will never learn." Derek looked between them, clearly asking if Scott had ever dated a hunter's daughter before, "He doesn't seem capable of grasping the point that hunters are rather against keeping magic in the world, while what we do is ensure its survival." Lydia shifted in her seat, pushing her hair back with a delicate sigh, "The last time we saw dear Christopher, he was trying to toss around Stiles until he gave up the name of the nymph we were helping to hide from his men." Derek tensed, his eyes flicking between them, "He can't really hurt us, though, if he's following the Code. We're humans, and sympathizing with the supernaturals out there isn't enough to warrant execution. Or, really, maiming, because Kate made a name for herself electrocuting even the children of some supernaturals." Stiles's features went from stormy to cataclysmic, his body tensing and a glint of rage in his eye. 

"Artemis is raring to go, isn't she?" 

"Absolutely." 

Stiles shifted forwards, narrowing his eyes, "What's the catch?" 

Lydia's lips twitched, "Kate doesn't become a full god unless Derek's fully a god. Which means she has to kill both the beast and Derek in order to get what she wants, and the beast? He's hunting her." 

Stiles shrugged, "So are we." Stiles shifted even more forwards, resting his forearms on his knees, "We time this right, and we could have Derek back together again, and be able to take out Kate at the same time." 

"We're not that lucky." 

"No, but we are that good." Stiles grinned, and Lydia knew that look; that was the look that had launched a thousand impossible and potentially deadly harebrained schemes, and had gotten through them without a hitch. 

Lydia groaned. "I'm going to get shot." 

"No fair! That's my line." 

 

~

 

Derek sighed as Stiles sat him down on the edge of the bed under the pretense of putting his boots on, his eyes brightening as Stiles's grip on his shoulders went from directing him to keeping Stiles steady, Stiles's legs folding up on either side of his lap as he climbed onto Derek's legs. Stiles smiled slowly, leaning in for a leisurely, possessive kiss; as if they had all the time in the world to kiss like this, just because Derek was his. Derek really had no argument against that, kissing back with a deliberate depth until Stiles moaned into his mouth, melting into his body. They were supposed to be preparing for their trap, but the thievery of moments like these just made it hotter. Stiles's fingers curled around the suspenders on Derek's shoulders, his pupils so huge they almost swallowed the warm amber in his eyes, "You look...you look _edible_ , Derek," Stiles's voice was a husky rasp, and it made Derek whine with the things he wanted to do to him. "I've hung out with enough of you godly assholes to know that that's supposed to happen, but...you're just downright _unfair_. Especially since Lydia's expecting me to let you out of this room looking like that." 

"Foolish girl." Derek growled the chuckle, and Stiles's hips gave an aborted thrust, his lower lip catching between his teeth. 

Derek coaxed it out from between Stiles's teeth to between his own lips, sucking it into a bruising flush and pushing Stiles's hips down against his again, groaning. "Edna probably knew putting you in a vest would make me implode." Stiles's hands ran down his chest, pressing against his muscles as he licked and kissed along Derek's jaw, nipping gently. 

"She did put me in a vest. Lydia had a nosebleed and told her if she did it again, there would be life-and-death consequences." Derek gripped Stiles's ass through the fabric of his trousers, and Stiles rode against his hips, hiking up and pushing down as if he didn't know whether he wanted more or not. "We need to stop. Before I lose the option of being able to." Derek managed, lips pressed against the long column of Stiles's throat, wanting to mark, and knowing he'd end up taking Stiles completely apart if he let himself just then.

Stiles pouted, but his hips stopped, his body angling away, "Do I smell like you?" Stiles's leaning gave Derek the opportunity to take him in, the perfect picture of him, mouth swollen and cheeks flushed, his permanently dishevelled hair mussed further by Derek's hands. 

Derek's eyes flashed with dark possessiveness, "Do you want to?" 

Stiles cocked one eyebrow, "Derek, I want you so bad I can't breathe." Stiles kissed him again, long and hard, his tongue fucking into Derek's mouth, and it took everything Derek had not to tip them over onto the mattress and take what he wanted. 

They emerged looking roguish, but presentable, and Lydia bit back a dozen dirty jokes, sliding into Artemis's side with a charming, red grin. Stiles rubbed a hand over his face, the intensity of the moment settling into him. "She'll be there, she has been every night for a week." Artemis assured him, "Just breathe, sweetheart, and this will be done with before you know it." 

"Derek, you're armed?" Stiles confirmed. Derek let his fangs and claws run out, his eyes bleeding blue. 

"Always."

"Lyds?" 

"Explosives, knives, three guns, and that garrote wire you gave me for Christmas last year." 

"That was actually supposed to be an actual bracelet, but moving on. Artemis, things go south, I want you to get Lydia out of there. Yes, she will fight; no, I don't care." Lydia's mouth fell open in a perfect 'o' of insult and surprise, but Stiles waved it off, "This goes south and I want to be able to keep eyes on Derek and focus on getting him out, Lyds, I can't be torn in two trying to get you out of the line of fire." Lydia seethed, but didn't argue. "Kate's been frequenting the bar Danny's been playing piano in around here, I'm not liking our chances of taking her out with minimal bloodshed, though I am liking our chances of taking her out. If you're going to get hit, don't get dead. Aim for maimed at worst, people. I refuse to speak at any of your funerals, and will perform séances solely with the intent of forcing you to show up to my mooning you." 

"I've seen your butt, Stiles, that's not a particularly frightening threat." Lydia snickered. 

"See?! I told you that you love my ass. You need to stop trying to threaten to shoot my ass, you love it too much!" Stiles shot Lydia a loving little smirk, and she shook her head, returning the sentiment. "Now: we few, we happy few…" 

"We band of buggered." Lydia finished for him, pushing the door open and tumbling through with Artemis in tow. Stiles chuckled behind them, smoothing a hand over Derek's shoulders to fix nonexistent wrinkles in his coat and giving him a look of love and protectiveness that took Derek's breath away. He could do this. For Stiles...he could do this. 

 

~

 

Stiles loved and hated places like this. It was uncouth and seedy and the only place men like him could go to. Of course, there was always that chance they'd be beaten and left for dead, but the risk-versus-reward seemed to silence out the death statistics to most. 

Danny, of course, was adored. Would be adored anywhere they went, on any adventure they went on, simply because he was Danny. Lydia outright simpered as he grinned and nodded to her from behind the grand, his black hair slicked to the side dashingly and his dark eyes smouldering under black lashes. In a white tux with his tie undone in his collar, he looked like he'd been stolen from the pages of a magazine. Stiles glanced around the bar, and his heart stuttered hard enough in his chest that Derek could hear it, his gaze sharp as he did a one-eighty, steadying hands on his wrist and his waist, "Lydia, we have a problem." Stiles breathed. Artemis had the same pale look, nodding at him once as her gaze swept the room, "Every single person in here but the wait staff? None of them are real." 

" _What?_ " Derek hissed, looking around sharply. In the mirrors behind the bar, he could see the flicker of horrid reflections just in the turn of the faces in the dancefloor; catch sight of canary-yellow eyes. The scent of alcohol was too pungent, but he knew he'd smell decay if it wasn't, demons the entire populous of the club. "What do we do?"

"We get the actual people in here out before they become food, and we come up with something else." Stiles resolved. 

"I don't like that it happened tonight, when we were going to make our move. This feels incredibly wrong, and not just because we're in a room of undead bastards squatting in reanimated meat suits that used to belong to good people." Artemis snarled quietly, her dark eyes flashing silver. Stiles shook his head once, his mouth set. 

"Lydia, you remember that time in Rio?" Stiles asked a bit breathlessly, slipping out of his suit jacket and thrusting it into her arms, undoing his tie and popping open buttons until his collarbone was visible under the careless splay of his shirt, lithe, taut muscles in his forearms standing out as he rolled his sleeves up, the sharp nip of his waist emphasized by the cut of his pants and the fit of his vest, making him look...honestly mouthwatering. Stiles looked up at Derek through his thick fringe of eyelashes, his mouth pulled into just a touch of a smirk as he grabbed Derek by the collar and reeled him in, licking into his mouth. By the time Stiles let him go, his cheeks were indecently flushed, eyes improperly blown, and his lips looked like they were made for the sole purpose of performing very dirty deeds. And then he was running up the stage, and Danny was throwing him a surprised, pleased look. Stiles reached the microphone, and Danny changed the tune for him as Stiles snarled out one deep, resonating note that had Derek's jaw hitting the floor at the voice that came out of that throat. 

"I didn't know he could _do_ that!" Artemis sighed in an indecently breathless voice, and as the dark, burning amber eyes flicked over the crowd, Stiles's willowy body moving just a little to the movement, lost in sheer bliss and abandonment in the music, Derek thought that that was probably the point. The tilt of Stiles's head as he belted words out set the carved angles of his cheeks and jaw well, the tendons of his neck so fucking inviting Derek had to bite down on the urge to leap up there and _mark_. Lydia was in action, Boyd, Erica, and Isaac appearing after a moment, trading shocked looks at the spectacle that was keeping all eyes on the boy on the stage, so that no one was noticing the quick and efficient evacuation taking place. The crowd shifted forwards, gathering closer to the stage, and Derek caught sight of Scott, sitting with Chris and Allison Argent, Kate nowhere to be seen. Artemis pulled herself out of the stupor of watching Stiles as he sung his heart and soul out, going to help marshal the humans out of the bar while Lydia set traps for the demons. Erica and Isaac were nowhere to be seen anymore, Boyd helping to usher confused people out onto the street as Artemis got them moving that way. Scott came to stand by Derek as if loyal to him, and he nodded to the operation taking place, letting the Argents slip by through the front door. Scott went to help Lydia while Derek snapped himself out of the trance Stiles had put him under, the long, blazingly hot look Stiles focussed directly through the crowd and onto him making him feel tight-skinned and flushed with heat. He slipped through the door, in time to see a lizard-monster slash at Chris Argent with dripping claws, and the man go completely still. A boy was grabbing Allison like she was a rag doll, her body limp and unmoving as she cried for her father and he tried to tell her everything would be alright. 

Derek snarled, starting forwards. "You'll both make lovely pieces to add to my collection." The boy's head turned, and he turned to stone, still grasping the unstruggling girl. The dead weight of her sat on the stone of his legs, slowly cracking through the stone until he was crumbling. Of course, because Derek's instinctual reaction had been to look, it was the last thing he could see before the magic of Medusa's head overtook him, turning him into a snarling, stark naked statue. A perfect specimen of art to add to the collection for auction for a peddler of lost art and antiquities. 

"I didn't think I was that attractive to gay guys," Stiles laughed, he and Danny stumbling out of the club just as the red-gold haze of another creature like Deaton swallowed Derek into its depths. Stiles screamed out, bursting into a full-blown sprint with Danny right beside him. 

"Two interested parties for my latest artwork?" asked a honey-and-oil voice that made Stiles's gut twist. 

He snatched the Art Dealer up by the front of his trench coat, shaking him violently and snarling more ferociously than Derek could, "What did you do?!" 

"To him and my other little statues? Medusa's head. But to the girl and her father, that wasn't me. Though my latest painting...The Lizard? He did. Before I took him out of your hair, that is. Seems to me like I did you a favour getting rid of the...more troublesome pets." Stiles hefted him further off the ground, murder shining black in his eyes, "But-but...since you're so keen, I can give you a chance. You make better art out of them than they make frozen, and they'll come back." 

"That's a _myth_ ," Danny sneered. 

"And what's Medusa, smart guy?" the Art Dealer sneered back. Stiles shook him again, and he flailed a little, restraining, "Look, look, you don't have to be so violent. Tell you what, I'll let you and all your little friends come and see if you want to save the ones I took tonight. I'll even give you until the dawn to turn them back, how's that for preferential treatment?" 

Stiles half-dropped, half-threw the demon down, shaking with rage, " _Fine_ ," he spat, listening as Lydia, Boyd, and Scott came running for them. Stiles turned to them, the words choking him. 

Ten minutes later, they were each separated off: Isaac, Erica, Derek, and a half-reptilian Jackson taking up Scott and Danny, Boyd, Stiles himself, and Lydia and a paralyzed pair of Argents respectively. 

Stiles stared up at the sculpture, Derek's body caught in a half-turn, his fangs run out though his features were still otherwise human, the magic having taken his clothes. He was beautiful beyond compare, and Stiles's hands were shaking with the weight of this, because he had no way of creating art, let alone capturing something as beautiful as Derek into it. In the other rooms, Lydia and Allison could be heard screaming and laughing as they undid the magic the Art Dealer had spun on Jackson to trap him within a portrait; Scott was beginning to exclaim that whatever way he and Danny had decided to create art out of the statuesque Isaac was done was working; and Stiles knew that Boyd would have no problem breaking Erica free of her marble prison. Stiles sat, despondent, trying to draw even though he'd never been able before; trying to think of some way, some other form he could use to break Derek free of the stone. 

"I promise, I'm just trying to get your proportions right…" He murmured, though he knew it wouldn't matter. Stiles held up his measuring tool, taking the length of Derek's foot, his shin, his thigh, his...well, that, too. Stiles snorted through his nose, trying to break free of the melancholy in order to force out something worthy, "I'd offer up my virginity or my immortal soul, but we both know you're _way_ prettier than that. I'd say that it'd be worth it, to keep you safe, but I kind of like being growled at and argued with. Lydia wins most of our arguments simply because she is determined and Lydia, so it feels nice to know that there's at least a chance of me coming out on top. Which, speaking of, I'd like to have sex with you at some point before one or both of us dies. Just putting that out there. We haven't talked about it yet, but I think we should. I know you're not sure, but...but I'd be happy to give myself to you like that. I'd be happy to have you claim me. Even if you can't let me claim you back." Stiles looked away from the unmoving statue, trying to capture the harsh snap of his teeth and juxtapose it with the protective set of his eyes. 

"It's not fair." Stiles murmured, voice tight, "All I want is you. Alive, real, breathing and talking and scowling at nothing. You're so strong. So powerful. Even before turning to stone, you were like moving marble, and it was incredible. You're a mountain, Derek, and you bow to no one. You...you could inspire anything. If I had a way to create art, a medium that would be able to capture how determined you are, how unflinching when you expect everyone else to quell and to run. You say my name, and the shape of it on your tongue feels safe to me, like you simply knowing me is enough to keep me from harm. It's silly and childish, but...you're warm. You have this demeanor like marble, but the heart of you...the heart of you is all-encompassing, all-consuming, and it's warm and light. When you think I'm not looking, you'll look at me. And I'm not looking, but I can feel it. I can feel how you look at me; and sometimes it feels like you think I'm as incredible as you are.

"You chose to bite Isaac to save his life, not because he was a friend of mine; but simply because he was an innocent, and you wouldn't see him die. Erica and Boyd...they've waited for a chance to save you for lifetimes, Derek. You'd say it's because you were their Alpha, but, Derek, not even the Morrigan has had a pack that's lasted as long as they have. They've strayed or died; chosen to grow old with their children or grandchildren. They don't last, they have no bond to her, even with her as their Alpha. You were born to be a ruler of men, Derek, but you don’t rule: you inspire. You brought me to you…" Stiles swallowed, his throat clicking because his heart was beating out of his chest, "I think I survived this far just to make it to you. Just to be by your side. And I'm not good enough. I didn't inherit Midir's goodness, though I do think he's from the same town you were from...that my family's from, originally. I'm not enough; and I'll never be enough, I know that, I've had a lifetime of falling just short, and I didn't care until now...Because now I'm not enough to break you out of that damn stone, and I really need that--" Huge, warm hands cupped his cheeks, and Stiles cut off, looking up from the atrocity on the page and blinking tears free from his eyes. Derek's fingers caught his tears, a low growl pulling through him as he yanked Stiles almost off the seat, holding him so devastatingly tight that it'd felt as though the air had been knocked from Stiles's lungs. 

"Of course you're enough. You're more than I deserve." Derek managed, shaking and sweat-sheened, his limbs weak. Stiles held him up, laughing and crying in relief, snagging the presentation sheet they'd cover the statue with to wrap around his lower half. 

Lydia was fighting a losing battle against her smile, leaning in the doorway, "Only you could _talk_ a man from stone." 

"Derek, growl at her for me?" 

"I am not helping you win arguments with Lydia. I'm good, but I sincerely doubt I'm that good. The Argent girl and her father…?" 

"Both unparalyzed and on the warpath. Allison's only just finding out the family secret, but Chris wants Jackson's hide." Stiles shot her a look as she led them out to the others, "I want to know what had him turning into a paralytic lizard." 

"You're going to make me pull rank on him, aren't you?" 

"Of course I am, little brother. Why do you think I keep you around?" Derek shot her a diamond-hard look, gratified when her eyes widened that she knew there would be words later on. 

"Try it, Christopher, I dare you." Stiles taunted smoothly, his voice ringing out in a harsh slap of sound over the echoing marble entrance, "He's against your precious code." 

"This beautiful young lady said it herself: He's the one that killed Camden Lahey." Chris sneered, gesturing to Erica. 

Stiles's eyes narrowed, his lips pursing, "He's the arrow, Chris; not the archer." Stiles took a deep breath, projecting his voice, "Kill him without proving that he is guilty of the crime he was used to commit, and I'll take you apart." 

Chris Argent threw him a considering look, and Stiles didn't raise his chin; didn't react or change his stance in any way, perfectly at ease and confident. "Fine. But the blood of any more that he kills is on your hands." 

"Chris, what were you doing at that club?" Stiles asked quickly, catching Chris as he gathered Allison away from Scott. 

"Kate wanted to speak to us." Allison told him, her brown eyes wide, "She was really insistent...I didn't feel safe to say no." 

Stiles's face softened, the kindness in his features showing through, "Allison, you father is a good man, and a strong man, but if you ever feel unsafe, and you need someone to just talk to, you can come and find Lydia and I. We'll do our best to make sure you feel safe." 

Allison nodded gratefully, a look of distrustful respect flashing in her father's eyes before he continued to herd her away. Stiles shifted incrementally closer against Derek, taking comfort as well as giving support. He was bone-tired, disappointed that Kate was still an issue; that Derek didn't have his wolf back. He wanted to curl up in Derek's warmth and sleep like a cat snuggled in the sunlight, but Lydia was turning to him with her Conjecture Face on, and he had proverbial fish to fry-- "No." Derek said, stern and commanding. Lydia's Conjecture Face wilted into confusion, and Stiles looked up at Derek questioningly, "Right now, I want to go somewhere with a bed and curl up and sleep. This includes taking Stiles with me. Ferretting out what connections Kate has to the demon world and what Jackson turns into and why the hell there was that boy that turned to stone, too, and shattered was trying to kidnap Allison, those things can wait. They can wait for at least ten hours' worth of sleep for both you, Lady Martin, and you, Stiles Stilinski." Derek paused, looking between the two sheepish treasure hunters for a moment before nodding, "Let's go." 

Stiles yawned as Derek threw the sheet across the bedroom, climbing into bed nude and building a little den out of their pillows. Stiles's fingers shook as he undressed himself, twitching to look at Derek lying in bed, waiting for him, like he was a delusion or a mirage. 

"It doesn't matter to me if you want to come to bed wearing something, Stiles. All we're going to do tonight is sleep. And we will discuss it, but I don't feel smart enough yet, being turned to stone is not conducive to coherency." Derek groaned, stretching, and Stiles let himself relax, sliding into bed and wrapping himself up in Derek's arms. 

Derek's skin felt pleasantly warm, a slow-burning fire on a nippy winter's day. Stiles loved those best, loved the feeling of warming up slowly and surely. Stiles's eyes were drooping almost immediately, Derek's bare skin against his own intimate and caring and so good and safe that Stiles melted even further into him. Stiles wrapped their hands together, kissing Derek's knuckles lazily until he was gone completely, soft and at peace. 

Stiles woke to Derek pressing open-mouthed kisses along the sharp edge of Stiles's shoulder, so entirely relaxed he was floating for a moment, his body supine and pleasantly separate from the warm glow that he was waking to. Derek's nose skimmed along the curve of his shoulder to his neck, inhaling, and Stiles squeezed Derek's arms tighter around him, pressing into the expanse of his chest. "You smell like beeswax...and adventure." Derek chuckled. Butterfly kisses lined the column of Stiles's neck, and he moaned softly, eyelashes on his cheekbones. "You asked me if it was overwhelming, all the noise and smells and light. I'm old enough and practiced enough to be able to pick up a pin drop out of a cacophony, so finding your heartbeat isn't so difficult." Derek's hand passed over the toned dip of Stiles's stomach, fingers memorizing skin. 

"I wish I could do that. I had trouble...I couldn't focus, as a kid, and then after the war, it just made it worse. I think hearing your heartbeat would be soothing." 

"It is soothing. It's also scary." Derek told him, pressing his forehead in the hollow between Stiles's shoulderblades, "You are very, very breakable. The evidence of which is everywhere on your skin." Derek sounded really, really pissed about that, but Stiles wasn't going to say anything, because what it got him was Derek's body wrapping more securely around his, "You've got a burn mark here," Derek thumbed over the tuck of Stiles's waist, "How'd you get it? Who gave it to you?" 

Stiles swallowed thickly, his throat clicking as he worked to remember exactly what had happened, "When we first met Scott, it was at a carnival that--though we didn't know this at the time--was harvesting the sin and spice of life and leaving its patrons living corpses. It was a trap, to make people want to return and return, because life outside the carnival was seemed so dull after you'd left it. Anyway...the ringleader had a barbed, flaming whip. Scott stumbled into finding out what had been going on, and the ringleader was going to whip him...probably to death. I stepped between Scott and the whip. He lashed me three times before I caught it in my hand," Stiles raised his right hand, tracing over the scar curled around his wrist and into his palm to show Derek, "and I hit him with his own whip. He, uh...he managed to accidentally hang himself. I only have these scars from that, though, he didn't lash hard enough to scar the other two times." 

Derek was tense behind him, dark and protective, Stiles could feel it. "This one?" Derek asked, fingers pressing against the line running parallel to the cut of Stiles's hip. 

"That's one of Lydia's favourite stories. She and I were looking for Athena's lost diadem, and we got a lead in Spain, of all places. She was making her way through the bowels of a library in Madrid when an eclipse triggered a curse, and the pirates that had been mass-murdered in the trove hidden under the library were awakened to protect the treasure and go through their deaths again. I got a sword to the hip for my troubles, but we found the diadem and managed not to bring the library to rubble, so we count that one as a win." Stiles chuckled. Derek moved away from his back, turning him over softly before he could really protest, and getting a view of the sadness on Derek's face made Stiles ache. He curved his hand around Derek's cheek, reaching for a soft kiss. They settled with their foreheads pressed together and their lips bare inches from touching, Stiles's fingers pulling lazily through the barely-curled tendrils of Derek's hair. "Lydia hates the Argents because of me." Stiles told him after a long moment. "My commanding officer was the venerable Gerard Argent. His training methods weren't kosher, and...Lydia and I got into a few battles that weren't ours. It brought up the memory, the memories became nightmares, attacks that left me reliving it, shaking and unable to breathe. I was lucky, really, for so long. There were others that'd come home...get hooked on opium, or worse. Some forgot how to speak; how to live. They curled into themselves and died from the inside out. It wasn't like that for me, and for that I was lucky. But when...when Lydia found out about what happened, I've never seen her so enraged. What Argent did was tantamount to torture." Stiles's voice was small and unassuming, his fingers skating over Derek's skin while his eyes focussed on the steady rise and fall of Derek's breathing. Derek pulled him in, tipping his mouth up for a kiss like he was trying to take away the pain and the memory of the pain in the simple press of lips and application of tongue. After a few moments, Stiles honestly thought it might actually work. Derek kept close when he pulled away to let Stiles breathe, his lips twitching as Stiles mindlessly grasped at him, protesting the tiny space between their lips, "Mmmnph. Stop laughing, keep kissing." 

"I will." Derek promised softly, moving his mouth along Stiles's jaw, his thumb edging over the mark under Stiles's chin. 

"I tripped and fell when I was seven, it took three stitches." Stiles laughed softly, teasing forward for another kiss before Derek tilted his head back enough to kiss the scar. "Not all of my scars have catastrophic stories attached to them." 

"You were seven." Derek whined softly, kissing down his throat, "I don't like the thought you being hurt at all, let alone so young." 

Derek nuzzled into his shoulder, "My mom died when I was nine. After that, I had to take care of the people I loved. I had to keep them safe." 

Derek shifted up onto an elbow to look down at him, his brow furrowed, "Then I'll keep you safe. For as long as I can." Stiles kissed him, smile tugging at his mouth. 

"We should get up. I'm not sure I want to, but we should." Stiles wrinkled his nose. Derek kissed over his heart, sliding to the edge of the bed. "How do you feel?" 

"It's hard to tell what's side-effect from being turned to stone and what's just lingering from being trapped for so long. I'll feel better when I run again." 

Stiles stood up, crossing to Derek and taking his arm up, pulling and stretching the limb out until Derek groaned, his features flashing relief as he clenched and stretched his hand, rolling his shoulder. Stiles worked the other arm, then his torso, chuckling as Derek let Stiles twist him one way then the other to work out his back. "I can't help with your legs, sorry." Stiles muttered as Derek crowded close, kissing him breathless. 

"Thank you." Derek murmured, smiling. Stiles caught up a shirt, catching the music box before it could fall to the floor, slipping the fabric on as he bit his lip, wondering if he should show Derek the box or not. It sprung open in his hand, the soft, sad music freezing Derek where he bent to pull on trousers, his head turning up to look at Stiles, then his hand, cupped around the tiny box. Derek's breath caught, though his back didn't tense as Stiles had thought it would; the angles of his face didn't harden into anger, but the sadness in his eyes was there full-force, "That was Laura's." Derek sighed as he sat down, and Stiles came forward, putting it into Derek's hands with shaking fingers. Derek hooked an arm around Stiles's waist, looking up at him. He didn't pull for Stiles to be closer, or restrain him from being able to move away. Stiles wove through Derek's jet black hair, encouraging him to lay his head against the notch of Stiles's hip, Derek's face turned into his skin. The sorrow and mourning was an ache in Stiles's chest, a tightness in his throat, and Stiles felt like it was a gift that Derek was letting him see this, letting him share this moment. "I didn't really get the chance to bury her properly. I was accused of her murder before I could." Stiles's breath caught, his hand cupping the back of Derek's head as he got lost in the image of it. Grief rose up in Stiles's chest, leaving him breathless, and he gently dislodged Derek to lean down, ghosting his lips over Derek's closed eyes, "Peter cut her in half, and left her unburied. I-I buried the half he left me to find with my bare hands...and she was dug back up before long." 

Stiles dropped to his knees, pulling Derek's face against his neck, holding him bruisingly tight. Stiles kissed every part of Derek he could reach, fierce and agonized as he forced down screaming with hatred at what had been done to Derek, what he'd suffered through. "I'm never letting you out of my sight. Nothing will happen to you, not ever again." 

Derek snorted, catching and calming him, "Don't promise me that. Especially not with what's happening." Derek drew Stiles up to straddle his lap, "For now, we'll do our best to take care of each other. When this mess is over, though…" 

"Lydia wants me to stay, for a while, in America, with my father. I'll go...if you join me." 

Derek blinked at him, "With my luck, are you sure you want me?" 

Stiles smacked his arm, scowling at him, "Yes!" 

"I'll come with you." Derek murmured, nodding, "When you and Lydia start travelling again, too." Stiles beamed, rocking into a kiss and squeaking as Derek gave out under him, laying them both down on the bed. Derek grinned up at him, "That's probably a bad life choice on your part." 

"Eh, it's not the worst I've ever made. Telling Lydia I can put up with Jackson is probably the worst life choice I've ever made. And that was before he started turning into a giant lizard that can paralyze and kill people." Stiles climbed off of Derek after one last kiss, yawning to himself as he finished getting dressed enough for comfort and propriety, "Speaking of..." 

They shared matching frowns, "We've work," they muttered simultaneously, their tones exactly disdainful. 

For once, their sitting room was unpopulated. The look of glee Stiles shot him got Derek to crack up slightly, shaking his head. "It might actually be too early for Lydia to contemplate living. She gets sleepy when there hasn't been a gun to her head in a few days. Trying to cleanse her of her heiress ways is like trying to put pants on a mermaid." Derek shot him a look, and Stiles grinned evilly, "And that is a story for tequila shots and lowered inhibitions." 

"You tried to put _pants_ on a _mermaid_?" 

"When Lydia gets here, don't bring it up, don't mention it in any way. It was her very bad idea and we both agreed never to speak of it again on the condition that I'd get to keep my life and my extremities. I am telling you this at risk to my life and my cock." Derek chuckled, "So, we were supposed to be taking time off in the Caribbean when Lydia got it in her head that she wanted to find the lost ship of Ponce De Leon. So, we get eight days into research and aimless boating, which does not agree with me, by the way. Lydia and I were drinking tequila as we were passing a copse of rocks on one of the little islands when she got me to start singing to her, and it started drawing mermaids to the boat. We'd dealt with sirens before, but not mermaids, and it was a nice change of pace not to be groped by water-ladies, let me tell you." 

Derek smiled, amused, "You are pale enough they'd want your skin." 

Stiles made a gesture of 'exactly!', grinning at him. "So, I was crooning for the mermaids, thinking that would be a safe thing to do--" 

"They sank your boat in order to get you in the water, to start drowning, so they'd have to kiss you." Derek deduced. 

"Mm-hm! They punched the yacht in half. Lydia found, though, that one of them had hair the same colour as hers. She knocked her out, and, at the time, pirates were pursuing us, so Lydia had the brilliant plan of dressing that mermaid as her in the wreckage. The hard part was trying to put pants on the mermaid. When the pirates separated from their ship to investigate, they picked her up thinking she was Lydia, and the mermaids went insane. Gave Lydia and I the opportunity to overpower those left on the ship and claim it as ours to get the hell out of there."

"That's actually a good plan. Apart from the pants." 

"It was. What Lydia doesn't like discussing, however, is that in trying to put the pants on the mermaid, she slipped on the wood of the deck, narrowly missed cracking her head on the railing on the ship, got caught on one of the outcroppings for tying down rope, and ended up with no pants herself." Derek's face twisted picturing it, and Stiles laughed at the look of grudging amusement. "She made me sing her Irish folk songs about Granuaile, Queen of pirates until I agreed never to tell a soul." 

Derek chuckled, listening as Stiles called down for their breakfast, getting enough food to feed a small army. His predictive powers weren't that far off as Isaac and Danny slipping into the room, yawning and drowsy-eyed. Scott came in a moment later, looking sheepish and more awake than the other two, but the three of them piled onto the couch in a indiscernible tangle of limbs. Lydia was shuffling, her eyes still mostly closed as she was led into the room by a grip on the back of Artemis's shirt. She was still in her nightdress, and Stiles fought down a smile as he gently loosened her fingers from the fabric, folding her into sitting on his lap sideways, her head on his shoulder, tucked against his neck, and his arm gathered over her knees. She'd look like a child if she were any younger, and Derek bit back jealousy at her proximity to Stiles because of the soft, easy, caring way he was murmuring to her, voice a low buzz of rising and falling tone, soothing and sweet. There was a soft, polite knock on the door, and Scott's tensing told Derek it was Allison even before Artemis opened it. She looked small and meek, timid as a mouse, colour burning high on her cheeks and eyes wide. "Come in." Derek called, surprising himself. Stiles threw a small, proud smile at him that he almost missed, but it lit a small spark of joy in Derek's chest that Stiles was proud of him. 

Allison took in the dogpile of boys and Lydia's dozing on Stiles's collarbone, Derek sitting on the arm of the loveseat by Stiles's side, and Artemis ushering in Boyd and Erica behind her. Derek had to give her her due for not showing the full extent of her fear. "M-My father told me…about why we really move so much, what it is he does…"

"He hunts supernatural beings because they're more powerful than humans." Stiles confirmed easily, leaning just slightly against Derek's thigh while he cradled Lydia back into unconsciousness. 

"I-I heard what he had to t-tell me." She stopped herself and took a deep breath, blinking some strength into herself, "Now I want to hear what you have to tell me." 

Stiles raised his brows, impressed, and he gestured to the armchair beside Artemis. Boyd and Erica curled up at Derek and Stiles's feet, letting the animal in them shine through just a little. "Gods are real. Derek is one of them; as is Artemis, and Jackson, that lizard creature you saw last night--"

"He's trapped in my rooms, by the way." Danny interjected, almost half-asleep under the pile of limbs. 

"The problem hunters have with the gods and the supernatural creatures--"

"Werewolves," Boyd, Isaac and Erica waved, "vampires, fairies, witches," Stiles saluted mockingly and Lydia mumbled in her sleep, "demons, ghost, ghouls, darklings, changelings, wendigos, trolls…" Artemis listed cheerily. 

Stiles gave her a quelling look, tempered by a smirk, and turned attention back to the narrative, "Hunters believe that the supernaturals, who've been created just as we have need to be erradicated. Many live in the world as we do, managing to exist peacefully enough, but the laws of how they live aren't the same as the laws of how we live. Some, the hunters are more than right in targeting: Your father, Lydia and I worked together in Cairo three years ago when a vampire that had been entombed in an attempt to kill himself went feral and tried to drink half the city dry to regenerate from being desiccated. There are supernaturals that need governing, and that is where your father and I have seen eye-to-eye. But your father is a diamond in the rough when it comes to governing himself. Many hunters now don't discern between creatures that want to live amongst us peacefully and those that have gone off the reservation. And many hunters now...want to kill people like us. 'Sympathizers', I believe we've been labelled." 

Allison nodded her understanding of that, digesting the information, but she looked up quickly, "And what is it that you do?" 

"We try to keep magic going. It's a law of physics that energy can neither be created nor destroyed; and magic, magical beings included, is just another form of energy. These creatures were created to be an output. If there's no more of them, the magic will go to things not meant to have it. Lydia wasn't meant to be a witch. Hunters started a war with fairies in the Irish highlands. The High King of the fairies died saving Lydia's life, and she ended up inheriting some of his powers." Stiles shifted her hair back from her shoulder, and she murmured into his neck, "I was born with the gift. My mother's people were gypsies: travelling healers and storytellers, given the power of imagination and belief. My mother told me the magic was a gift to lead those around us to their happiness and destiny. My father goes to the town in Ireland he met my mother in every year now." Derek ran a hand through Stiles's hair, kissing his temple. Stiles turned to rest his cheek against Derek's side for a moment, swallowing. "Similarly, a man named Peter stole some of Derek's powers from him, and has changed Scott into a werewolf when he was never meant to be one." Allison looked sharply at Scott, and Stiles cleared his throat after a moment, "Gods are difficult to deal with," Stiles shot a mischievous smirk at Artemis and Derek, both scowling slightly, "they don't have many weaknesses, and they've never been governed by anything other than other gods and their own moral compasses, those that actually have them. In that respect, hunters have kind of taken a page out of the gods' books." Lydia stirred as a knock on the door signalled the arrival of their breakfast. Danny held up his hand to stop Stiles from getting up, crossing to the coffee pot and getting Stiles and Lydia each a cup first, smiling as Lydia finally pulled out of her stupor. 

Danny made a cup of coffee for Allison, and she looked shocked as she sipped the coffee that Danny had prepared perfectly without her input, Stiles's lips twitching, "Danny has a special gift for being a saint. In his natural habitat, the Danny is a social creature with incredible patience, a near-mystical gift for finding dropped keys and other everyday items right when you need them, and complete congeniality. But is the rare and elusive Danny actually mystical? We simply do not know." Lydia snorted, elbowing Stiles and Danny chuckled. 

"Does anyone else think this feels weird?" Isaac asked. 

"This feels like pack." Boyd told him. Derek looked around at them all, nodding after a moment, a perplexed look on his face. 

"It feels like someone's missing, but he's right." Stiles breathed, just low enough for the werewolves closest to pick it up. Lydia took Stiles's hand, leaning on his shoulder muzzily. "How're the rest of you feeling? Tight muscles and aches?" 

"Oh, Boyd limbered me up last night." Erica purred, amused. Stiles cringed a little, his nose wrinkling. 

"I'm okay, my head hurts, but I think that's probably because I need food and caffeine." Isaac put in, resting his forehead against Scott's shoulder and closing his eyes while Danny pet through his hair. 

"You're probably dehydrated." Lydia hummed. 

"I'm...I'm intruding, aren't I? You've things to talk about…" Allison blushed. Artemis roused, looking at her speculatively. 

"If you wanted, I could teach you what your father should have been teaching you." Artemis murmured quietly, her eyes dancing in the morning light, "How to fight; how to hunt. You could ensure order. Work with people like Lydia and Stiles to bring peace. But I'll only teach you if you want to learn." 

Allison looked startled, but she nodded slowly, "I-I want to learn...I want to learn how to do things right." Artemis smiled, the look more predatory and dangerous than Erica could ever hope for. 

"Stiles?"

Stiles waved, raising his brows, "Have fun. I'll fill you in later." Artemis and Allison left quickly, and the room settled in, ready for a tribunal for war.

 

~

 

Jackson was lying naked in the centre of the circle Danny and Lydia had arranged the night previous, looking dejected and confused. 

Stiles tossed him pants, squatting at the edge of the circle while Jackson sat up and pulled them on without standing, "We need to talk about what you've been getting up to." Stiles started, groaning a little as he sat down. "Because I'm betting that you weren't interested in turning into a giant, paralytic lizard consciously." Jackson looked up at him sharply, scowling already as he slithered into his pants, "Of course, if I'm wrong, we can always drag you to Christopher Argent. They won't kill you, of course, but they can poison you damn close." Stiles settled himself down on the floor outside of the circle as if he was expecting a long conversation. "So, you and I need to have a talk about what you remember, because you're the one that killed Camden Lahey, and Derek caught you attacking Chris and Allison Argent last night. Wearing considerably more scales and with a considerably more enthusiastic demeanour--which, yeah, okay, they are Argents and the Argents are public enemy number one to everyone but Scott, though he was surprisingly easygoing to the idea that Allison learn from Artemis, which could mean she becomes one of Artemis's Amazons, which means some celibacy for a few years, but I think he and Danny might've been play--" Stiles cut off as Jackson went for him, his eyes sliding reptilian and yellow for a moment, "So we don't like the thought of my bestie and yours living happily ever after, huh?" Stiles cocked an eyebrow, relaxing into his seat again, "I can dig it. Being connected to you any more thoroughly than I already am kind of turns my stomach. You already have my better half, you don't need to have hooks in my best friend." Stiles shrugged, "But, at least I don't have to worry about you getting your claws in Derek in some way, right?" 

" _I'll get to him some way,_ " the voice that came out of Jackson's throat stopped Stiles's heart, his face going pale, " _I'll tear you apart, Stilinski, and make you suffer for the Hell you've put me through!_ " 

Gerard Argent's voice snarled out of Jackson's mouth, and Stiles didn't even register Derek almost kicking the door from the hall in to get to him, seizing him around the shoulders and pulling him away as Jackson lashed out, half-turned into the reptilian monster, catching Stiles's hand with the venom though his claw didn't manage to break the skin. Stiles looked down at his hand, feeling his body shut down until he was limp in Derek's arms, being dragged towards Danny's bedroom, the circle breaking under the weight of Gerard's ethereal chanting pouring from every shadow in the room at once and Jackson giving chase as Derek dragged him through the door, slamming it closed behind them and collapsing against the bottom with Stiles between his legs, half-cradled against his chest. "Stiles? _Stiles_?!" Derek shook him gently, his limbs loose and useless. 

"I'm okay...he didn't scratch the skin, just got the toxin on me. I can't move. I can still talk, though, at least." Stiles laughed, unable to move or help as Derek dragged him up and turned him slightly so that his back was resting against Derek's chest, his body framed with Derek's bulk. "That...that was Gerard...but he's dead. I killed him." Stiles managed, his head resting against Derek's strong, steady pulse. 

Derek tensed beneath him, "How?"

Stiles was quiet for a long time, and Derek could hear his breathing misbehaving, his heart uneven in his chest, "He was sending us all on a suicide mission. Into a small town that wasn't even touched by our enemies. But it meant something to the general above Gerard who'd called his practices into question; his daughter, a little seven-year-old girl, innocent as anything, was living in that town as a refugee from the bombings in the larger cities. I found out that we were about to move to slaughter all these people when the only reason behind it was because someone had clued into Gerard's insanity, and I confronted him...He pulled a goddamn grenade. He was crazed, it was beyond sickening...but I got out. He didn't." 

Derek held him tighter, ducking his chin against Stiles's shoulder and breathing him in, pressing his nose behind Stiles's ear to get his scent without the stench of the monster or the dart of fear. He breathed slow and even against Stiles's neck, and before long, Stiles was breathing in time with him, his loose body losing the smell of his tension. The door banged and rattled behind them, the creature trying to break its way through, because whatever that was, it wasn't Jackson. "I think I remember something...about a story about two soulmates who weren't meant to be lovers. Their non-union caused...a ripple, I guess you could say, in the fabric of the world. It made a creature bent on vengeance because it believed its love could never fully be realized."

"How'd the story end?"

"The lover had to prove that their love was real."

"Well, I get the sense that that is not going to work out."

"Because Jackson isn't willing to really love anyone?" 

"Because Jackson is a lying, cheating scum bucket." The door bucked under them once particularly hard, Derek grunting as he curled his legs up to push his back against the wood more solidly. It went too quiet too suddenly after that, Derek locking down to listen to what was happening. "Has he left?" 

Derek waited a few more moments, "I think he has. How did he manage to break the circle?" 

"Danny and Lydia can't cast the really strong circles: Danny's only human, and Lydia's magic would kill if it wasn't tempered." 

Derek shifted, and Stiles's head lulled slightly before Derek drew it back up under his jaw, "Tell me about the battle in the highlands." 

"There's a scar on my thigh from that one. Spear wound. The hunters teamed up with an army of dark fae to take out the High Court, and they were going to engage in a right battle before trying to take each other out. The High Queen and Lydia covered me in woad runes before the battle." Stiles's mouth twitched, and Derek knew he wasn't going to like what was coming next, "I led a team into the hunter's camp, took out half their forces by the dawn, just like old times." 

"In the war...you were an assassin?"

"I was the leader of a team of covert operatives. Spies and assassins," Stiles's voice mixed with sadness and disgust, and Derek slid his fingers through Stiles's. "Highly trained, freakishly skilled. None of us were fully human, and Gerard was put in charge of us because the upper ranks expected fear of him to keep us all in check. It worked…after a fashion." 

Derek wanted to growl, his body tense as a drawn bow beneath Stiles's. "What did he do to you?"

Stiles's heart rate picked up, anxiety spiking through his scent. If his body could be tense, it would be; hands shaking and face deathly pale. Derek watched as Stiles tried to blink out of his glassy-eyed stare, seeing things that were in the past, long gone but never forgotten. The urge to protect was a bile in the back of Derek's throat as he forced himself to soothe. Derek's mind flashed to the myriad of scars running paler over pale skin; how much pain had Stiles pulled himself through? How much blood had he lost? Were there years of his life that would be shortened now because he'd lived so hard? Derek was staring down the barrel of eternity; Stiles was fragile and human and so careless with himself that it made Derek want to lock him away. Derek smoothed his hands over Stiles's sides, rubbing the back of his head and neck. 

"You're safe. You're with me, you're safe." Derek whispered, cupping his hand around Stiles's forehead, sliding his lips over the line of Stiles's neck. "I will die before letting him touch you again." 

"Don't do that." Stiles breathed, voice tight and in pain, "That bastard's taken a lot from me, but he can't take you." 

"Stiles?! Derek?!" Lydia's voice called from the sitting room. Derek heaved them upright, opening the gouged and shredded door. Lydia breathed a sigh of relief, shaking her head, "What happened here?" Lydia took in the limp sprawl of Stiles's limbs and her eyes widened, "Did he break the skin?"

"No. No, and I think it might be wearing off already, which is good." Stiles assured her. Derek scowled at the scorched and broken runes on the ground as he stepped over them, and between one footfall and the next, they weren't in the hotel in Greece anymore. A jungle stretched out around them, the heavy, oppressive heat of the air heavy with the scent of forest. "Oh, hell." Stiles muttered, looking pale. "This...this _cannot_ be good." 

"What happened?!" Derek demanded, panic in his voice. 

"My guess? Gerard did something to the runes besides simply breaking them."

"Jackson was here...his scent's here." Derek growled, arms tight and protective. 

"Can you teleport yourself back?" Stiles had a feeling he already knew the answer to that. 

"Probably not, and I'm not leaving you, or bringing you with me and risking that I'm right and my powers aren't strong enough to get me all the way." Stiles felt slightly mollified that he had known the answer, "I don't suppose you have any magic tricks up your sleeve?" 

"Not until we get to civilization. An old friend owes me a favour, and if I'm right, and this is Cambodia, getting to him will be relatively easy."

"Lydia and the others?" 

"Lydia can't scry, so she won't be able to find us." Scrying was an innocent little locating technique, one of the easiest forms of witchcraft there was, but from the descriptions of Lydia's powers, Derek felt reasonably sure he didn't want to see the fallout from Lydia using it for anything less than chaos and destruction. "Last time she tried to scry, she almost burned the place down around us. The map burst into flames that refused to be put out by anything besides copious application of honey, of all things. Believe me, only Lydia could create fire with a sweet tooth." Derek looked as though he was questioning every decision he'd ever made to bring him into this insanity, and Stiles just grinned at him, his breath catching as Derek started walking through the swampy underbrush of the jungle. Stiles bit his lower lip, eyes swivelling as much as possible, human senses pricked for any possible sign of danger. Derek could feel Stiles trying to tense his muscles, testing if he could get motor control back, and he bit back a smirk because he wasn't about to put Stiles down, no matter how far out of his system the toxin was. The scent of the flowers around them was slightly poisonous, sickly and so horribly sweet it was repulsive: he wasn't willingly putting Stiles in the path of anything else that would hurt him. A scent slightly more refined than panic pierced through Stiles's scent: Stiles's hand shot out, a blur of pale skin in the gloomy half-light, catching an arrow a mere inch before it shot through Derek's neck. Stiles snapped it, smirking, "Nothing like adrenaline to get through the paralysis." Stiles murmured softly, turning his head and yelling something into the jungle in a language that Derek couldn't even begin to understand. It didn't matter, though. Derek's senses were on high alert, but there was nothing to sense, no sign of threat though there clearly was one. He put himself between Stiles and the path the arrow had come from, looking for a safe place to put him if it came to a fight, and Stiles's hand gripped into his collar, his eyes dark and compelling, "Stop. Breathe. It's going to be fine. Don't fight them. Not yet." Stiles swung himself out of Derek's arms with more effort than it should have taken, pale and wobbly. 

"What?" Derek demanded. He moved one step closer to Stiles, and the sound of a trap springing was all the warning he got before he was watching the world turn upside down, Stiles backflipping from the trajectory of the rope hidden beneath the underbrush, landing on his feet and looking up at Derek instead of towards the small army of pygmies battlecrying towards them. 

"Don't fight!" Stiles ordered slowly and clearly, finally turning his attention to the onslaught headed for his knees. He held his hands up, palms out, speaking low and fast to the pygmy with the largest headdress, gesturing between Derek and himself. Derek watched as the skeletal, deformed little beings seemed to fall into a state of confusion before they resolved to cutting Derek out of the tree and tying he and Stiles together, tugging them along as though leashed. Derek felt fairly certain he could slice through the ropes and massacre every last one of the little bugs, but Stiles seemed perfectly at ease, walking easily, if a little unsteadily, beside him over the uneven terrain. Stiles's amber eyes flashed up to the treetops, and Derek caught sight of thousands more of the little bastards, moving soundlessly over the leaves as though they were just the barest rustle of wind. Derek pushed his hearing, his sense of smell; trying to pick up even a trace of the pygmies. Only the scent of the jungle filled his nose, and Stiles's calm, beeswax-and-fresh air scent. "They're a part of the jungle. It protects them, and they protect it." 

They came to a sort of clearing of the underbrush, and Derek took in the mangled and deformed remains of military men and explorers, their bodies bowed and burst forth with their death cries. This was not boding well. 

"Miss me, Dirk?" Stiles called, cheeky grin splitting his features. There was a bark of laughter, and a darkly tanned, mountain of a man came loping out from one of the trees, white smile flashing as he jogged over to Stiles and cut him free smoothly, slapping their hands together and pulling him into a brotherly hug that Derek had to fight growling at. 

Dirk's unbelievably green eyes turned on Derek, his head cocking slightly to the side. "I didn' think Lydia'd be so...butch." He drawled, Southern twang and boyish charm. Stiles snorted, rolling his eyes. "Though I do know he is your type." Dirk continued to tease. 

"Dirk Greenberg, meet Derek Hale. Dirk was one of the best aquatic assets to my team, but the bastard can fly anything with wings." 

"One of? Really? Them's fightin' words," Dirk laughed, sticking his hand out for Derek to shake once he'd cut Derek loose, too. "I can fly anything with wings, though. This bastard stuck me on a...what was it? A gargoyle? Anyway, it was made of stone and had the aerodynamics of a left nut." 

"I'm not going to ask how you know the flight capabilities of testicles." Stiles muttered tightly, looking pained. 

"Smart choice." 

"Derek's the cream in my coffee. Speaking of, where the hell is Finstock? Last I heard, you two had run off together on a hang-glider that was not built for the trip you were using it for." 

Dirk's features darkened, "Al...uh. Al and I crash landed here five years ago. And I became the great poo-bah around here so he'd be let go." Dirk's eyes flicked to the nearest cage full of slaughtered explorers, his lips twitching, "Only reason I'm still alive is 'cause I told the bastards the only way to truly pay me homage was to find my damn plane and cook me over it before they eat me. They're still missin' some parts." 

Stiles looked shaken to his core, "Dirk, I'm--"

Dirk held up his hands, quelling as he shrugged back a little. "Al 'n I knew the day would come." 

"We're talking about the same Finstock here, right? Verbally abusive, five levels of batshit crazy, and actually named Bobby?" 

Dirk snorted, "No, I will not tell you why I call 'im Al." 

Stiles cocked an eyebrow, his mouth twisting wryly, " _Fine_ , professor crazypants." Dirk shot him a look and they both cracked up at once, an old, easy camaraderie obvious between them, cutting through the grief. "Could I talk you into one last miraculous escape?" 

Dirk glanced at the army surrounding them still, tiny spears raised and snarls on half-festered features. "I think I got one more ride left in me." 

Derek didn't know if he liked the sound of that. 

A few hours later, Dirk's hands were gruff, his eyes focussed as he strapped and smacked and yanked the harness around Derek securely, Stiles strapping himself into his own a few feet away. "They're going to attack when they realize we're leaving. Knock 'em apart, and they put themselves back together, sometimes with extra pieces from friends and family. They don't bleed, but you can only get them so wet before they disintegrate. Now, our boy Stiles has the mojo to summon us a storm. Problem there is that it's fuckin' hard to fly in a storm. But I can, I will, and we're going to get you boys home safe." Dirk flashed a grin, smacking him on the arm. "When it comes to it, you jump out of the plane, freefall for a few seconds, and then you pull this chord here." 

"When?!" Derek demanded. Dirk smirked wryly, gaze fond and just a little bit patronizing. 

"The pieces these bastards are missing are the landing gear. Meaning that we won't be landing: we'll be crashing." 

"There are two parachutes and three of us--I'm a god, I'd survive; you should be the one strapped in this thing--"

Dirk snorted quietly, his eyes sad, but still bright, "You don't get it: I'm hoping I don't walk out of this. When Al and I first met, he was dressed in drag in the middle of a bar brawl. Ugliest son of a bitch I'd ever seen, and he took down a guy twice my size while wearing a full-length gown. He told me his name was Al, told me never to ever talk to him, and threatened my testicles should he ever see my ugly mug again. He was abrasive, abusive, and downright comical, and he's the best partner, friend, and lover I've ever had. I don't want to survive in this world now that he's not in it with me." 

Derek's features darkened, his gaze flicking to Stiles and back, "I think I understand a little better than either of us realized." 

Dirk stepped aside, checking quickly over Stiles's chute, nodding to him after a moment's silent communication. Derek walked over to Stiles, watching in shock as Stiles's eyes turned flat black, the air around him growing even thicker with power. Stiles's skin began to glow just slightly silver, and the crackle of thunder started right above the treetops, the rolling rumble of a true storm far too powerful. Lines formed, running blue-silver over Stiles's skin; runes and wards reappearing on his pale skin. Derek shuddered at the gut feeling of _wrong_ as Stiles shook himself, a grin splitting his face as his eyes slowly regained colour. Stiles looked at the trees, and a ripple ran through them, whispers picked up like the wind. "The trees aren't going to move for me. It'll have to rain hard enough to get through the canopy." Stiles shook himself once again, rolling his shoulders. "Here comes the flood." Stiles growled, his eyes turning black once again. 

"Derek, grab Stiles, we're headed that way," Dirk pointed, "he's not going to have it in him to fight or run, so you're going to have to do it for him." Derek scooped Stiles into his arms, the sky cracking above their heads as he did, pouring rain down on the canopy so hard that it managed to break through almost immediately. Stiles was freezing cold in his arms as Derek raced in the direction Dirk had pointed to, Stiles's heartbeat fluttering in his chest as his eyes wavered and closed. His breathing grew faint, and fear and panic washed through Derek as the pygmies screamed from a thousand places. Derek's hearing might not have been able to pick them up, but the sound of their arrows was clear when he worked for it. Behind them, Dirk had pulled a flare gun from lord knew where, firing into the pygmies themselves, the explosive bursts of flame edging at Derek's periphery, their short shrieks of outrage and pain cut off as they went up like flash paper, still more shrieking as water poured down from the gutted sky, drenching them enough that they turned to pulp. 

Derek could make out the form of the plane between one flash of lightning and the next, Stiles's shuddering body clutched closer and harder into him the colder he seemed to get, his eyelashes heavy with moisture and his cheek so pale it hurt. Derek threw them into the back of the plane, gathering Stiles against him, bleeding warmth into him as he distractedly yanked arrows and spears he hadn't even felt pierce him out of his skin. Stiles was unharmed, but shaking like a leaf--like the world as thunder and lightning crashed hard enough to rock the plane. Dirk climbed into the pilot's seat, yanking an arrow from between his ribs as he started the plane, praying under his breath. The jolting, shaky take off from the lake the plane had rested on saw Derek's heart in his throat, his hands clutching the seat because gripping Stiles that tightly would shatter his bones. Derek grit his teeth, eyes flashing blue with how thoroughly this went against his instincts. Stiles stopped breathing for a moment, as the plane went eerily silent for a moment in mid-air. With an explosion of black smoke, the plane sputtered back to life as Stiles jolted upright in Derek's arms, Derek neatly restraining him from smashing his head against the roof of the aircraft. "Stiles! Stiles, c'mon, breathe." Derek's hands framed his face, wiping rainwater off of his cold skin and urging those brown eyes open. Colour returned just slightly to Stiles's lips, his cheeks; his breath shaky for the first few pulls before he blinked his eyes up to take Derek in, his hand trembling against Derek's dark skin as he caressed his cheek. 

A tiny smile pulled at his mouth as he looked up into Derek's face, "Told ya I could do it…" He sighed weakly. 

Dirk barked another, more hysterical laugh, looking at them over his shoulder, "If you could coax the winds to keep this fucker afloat, it'd be much appreciated. This storm could tear us to shreds!" 

Stiles's hand closed around Derek's, determination making his eyes hard as diamonds, and his skin began to glow again, the silver such a contrast to the light, golden sheen of godhood on Derek's own. The plane picked up altitude as the wind bore it up, sweat beginning to gather on Stiles's chilled skin. Derek curled around him, ducking his head to kiss his mouth softly. Stiles's fingers slid through Derek's as the plane shook and fought around them, as the sky raged with Stiles's magic behind it, as Stiles threw everything he had into creating the wind to keep them aloft. Derek's fingers worried over his cheek, his tongue slow and deliciously tempting as it fucked into Stiles's mouth, leaving Stiles shaking and breathless even as it made him feel like he was being given a sliver of Derek's strength. Stiles panted softly when Derek let him breathe, his eyes dark in a way that had Derek tense for whole other reasons, and his lips swollen and bruised. 

"Stiles, you're not going to like what you're going to have to do next!" Dirk yelled back to them. Stiles blinked, his confusion merging into a scowl as he looked from Dirk in the pilot's seat to the sky outside the tiny porthole window. 

"Can this bastard get us to Bangkok?" 

"Eh, we can try." Dirk shrugged, and Stiles slid more fully into Derek's embrace, his face turned to the slaughter of thunder and lightning outside of the plane.

Derek focussed on his heartbeat, the scent coming off of him of impending panic and immortal determination, but it didn't really help his own nervous jitter as the plane rattled and wheezed like it would fall from the sky at a moment's notice. Derek pressed his hand against Stiles's chest, over his heart, and Stiles gasped in a breath, the fear breaking through, "I don't like free falling." Stiles told him softly, his tone alone carrying the severity of his discomfort, the paleness of his cheeks only serving to underscore it. 

Derek swallowed, nodding slowly, "Do you trust me?" 

Stiles blinked, startled at the question, his brow knitting, "Yes, but--"

"Stiles, if you trust me, then you know I'm not going to let anything happen to you. You're going to be perfectly alright."

Stiles gulped, his heart rate still climbing, his eyes darting, panicked, to the window. He was seeing something that wasn't there, by the glassy look in his eyes; something that had happened before Stiles had even known Derek's story...and still, Derek wanted to tear the very memory to smithereens. Derek took Stiles's face between both his hands, forcing him to meet his gaze, "I-I feel--I...I c-can't--!" 

Derek leaned forwards, turning so his mouth was under Stiles's ear, his breath billowing over his neck as he breathed slow and steady, gently worrying the opposite side with his fingers, tracing the lines that had disappeared into Stiles's skin once more. "In with me, out with me." He breathed, his hand tracing over lines and planes until it rested over his heart once again, "I'm right here. _You're safe_." 

Stiles's breathing was starting to ease when the plane jolted as though it'd been hit, and Stiles's hand was white-knuckling, locked around Derek's wrist. Derek slid his hand fully into Stiles's, sectioning a part of his mind off to concentrating on not reacting to the jolts and sputters of the plane by gripping too tightly onto the only steady thing in the world at that moment. Stiles's voice was small and wry, "If I break your hand holding on too tightly on our way down…?"

Derek made a noise very much like a guffaw, shrugging as he felt himself relax just a little, "It'll heal." Stiles smiled at him, leaning his head against Derek's shoulder as he blew out a deep breath and closed his eyes, lips parted in prayer though he knew more gods than even the old priests. Stiles's fingers tightened around Derek's hand before Dirk turned in his seat to tell them it was time, and he let out a gusty breath. 

Honey-brown eyes looked up under Stiles's thick fringe of lashes, his mouth soft as he formed the words, "I kind of really love you." He breathed. 

Derek kissed him, pouring the breathlessness of an impending fall into the movement of his mouth against Stiles's, "I know." 

Derek was a wolf; he wasn't built to fly, or to fall. The harsh lash of wind against him brought tears to his eyes, but warmth overtook his hand as they plummeted free of the plane, Stiles's grip on him tight even while he trembled. If Derek could have shared that panic, to diminish its weight on Stiles's chest, he would've; as it was, Derek tried to pour the feeling through his hands that Stiles was the most precious thing in the world to him, the only thing left. Stiles slipped his hand free after a moment, tugging the chord, and Derek followed suit, the wind catching the fabric and the change in speed sending Derek's stomach through his feet. He looked up to find Stiles as they drifted slowly downwards, darkness settling over the hot, humid land. 

They touched down on the dirt road of a rice paddy, Derek crawling over to Stiles as he struggled to free himself from his chute. Stiles brushed his fingers over Derek's cheek, urging him down, "I can't...I can't move right now." Stiles whimpered, and his whole body was shaking, "Too much...too much adrenaline, I can't…"

"I can carry you, Stiles." Derek murmured, knowing already that Stiles would refuse. 

Stiles was unconscious within a minute, his body overworked to the point of exhaustion. Night had fallen while they were in the air, and Derek didn't know where to even begin to look for shelter. Separating Stiles from his harness was too easy; Stiles's body completely pliant, not even stirring as Derek manhandled him from the straps. Derek shed his own, torn as he looked at Stiles laying there. Derek laid down with his chute bunched under his head, pulling Stiles over so that he laid pillowed on Derek's chest, a low whine in his throat as he sprawled over Derek's skin. Derek promised himself only a few hours, until Stiles would be deeply asleep and better-rested besides, staring up at the endless stretch of sky above him, hoping that, for all that had happened--all that saving him had cost Stiles, he turned out to be worth it.

Derek woke to bare skin and a luxurious bed and thought for a moment that he'd dreamt the jungle, the pygmies, and the plane. The room smelled wrong, though; incense and spices laying deep with silk and rich woods. Derek blinked slowly awake, his mouth brushing back and forth of Stiles's bare shoulder as he muzzily raised his head to the softened light of dawn. Derek startled as he caught sight of a monk, but there was no beat of a heart, and the man seemed transparent where he sat. "Who are you? Where are we?" 

"I am one of the keepers of the Temple of the Living Flame. You were found by three ghosts, much like myself, and one of our patients. Your lover was waning: Where you would have eventually woken having healed, he would have perished. We chose to bring you here, to the temple, to ensure you both awoke alive." 

"Thank you." Derek managed, his hand falling to rest on Stiles's back, the pulse beneath his hand putting his at ease, "I'm sorry for my ignorance, but what is the Living Flame?" 

The ghost chuckled, "We are the dead that help preserve the lives of others. Hate or anger kept us from moving on from this world, but we've taken that wrath and turned it into a desire to help; to heal. The fires that kept us here won't devour us; but help us to find a way to make this world better." Derek felt honestly impressed by that; respect flooding his features. "For now, rest. The venom that your clothes were covered in--that I suspect you got shot with--may not kill you as a god, but it will weaken you. Your friend was lucky that we've antidotes to most poisons known to man, or he may have gotten very, very sick simply from what had rubbed off from you to him. He'll be fine once he rests; as will you." The monk bowed to him, disappearing in a cascade of white lights like sparks.

The arm propping Derek up slid easily back under Stiles, a low hum in Stiles's throat as he shifted closer to Derek under the silk sheets. "Stop feeling guilty and sleep," Stiles muttered, holding onto Derek's arm where it was thrown across his chest, "the nice ghost-man told you to rest, so rest." 

Derek pressed his lips to the back of Stiles's neck, closing his eyes and drowning himself in the warm, easy feel of Stiles's body in his arms until he went lax himself, his eyes drifting closed as Stiles reached up to gently card his fingers through Derek's jet hair. "Dirk told me why he called Finstock Al." 

Stiles's voice was an uncomplicated sigh, his smile sad and soft, "That _rat bastard_." Stiles pet his fingers through Derek's hair three times before Derek was asleep on his shoulder, Stiles drifting off with the soft curls still woven around his fingers. 

When Derek woke next, he was alone in the bed, Stiles propped on the footboard with a sketch pad of paper on his lap and a piece of charcoal between his fingers. "Please tell me you're not drawing me sleeping naked." 

"I am not drawing you sleeping naked. I can't actually draw." Stiles reminded him primly, glancing up from under his lashes, "Which, with subject matter like you? Crying shame." 

Stiles waggled his eyebrows, and Derek resolved that it really was too early in the morning to laugh, because otherwise he would've. "You alright?" 

"I...am perfectly alright. Just like you promised." Stiles put the pad aside, crawling over the bed until he was suspended above Derek on his arms, teasing down slowly for a kiss. Derek wrapped his arms around Stiles's back, pressing up into the kiss to keep it going longer. "Thank you." Stiles murmured against his lips, rubbing along his collarbone. "And it's not your fault you didn't sense the poison, either, so that guilt line between your eyebrows needs to go away now." Stiles poked the line with his fingertip, squinting and scowling at it. Derek pulled back, amusement warring for top billing on his features, "Everything in that damn forest smelled like poison, Derek, I'm serious. I could even smell it, and I'm only a little human." 

"I--"

"No." Stiles narrowed his eyes, his mouth twisting comically. Derek opened his mouth, and Stiles made an "ah!" sound, the look getting more like a cartoon every time it happened. Derek growled low, licking his way into Stiles's mouth and taking his lower lip hostage between his teeth. "As far as methods of getting me to shut up go, this one's preferential." Stiles muttered, snorting with laughter. 

Stiles laid his head down against Derek's shoulder, the heat of his skin touching Derek's, and Derek panicked, twisting and sitting up, pressing his hand to Stiles's forehead, "You're running hotter than I do, Stiles." 

"I know. It's the poison working its way out. I'm kind of weak right now, but I'll be fine so long as I don't push it." Derek took out the arms he was propping himself up on, laying him down with utmost care on the bed. "Sitting up is not pushing it. Hell, taking out a clan of sprites isn't pushing it." Derek shot him a look, and Stiles grinned, "Lay down, I'll tell you all about it."

As it turned out, Derek, even with his godly healing, was the one suffering far worse than Stiles. Stiles's temperature was low enough that he could stand without stars in front of his eyes and a wave of nausea, but Derek's raged up and got bad within the first hour of his waking up. Alternating between freezing so thoroughly nothing could warm him, and burning so hot he'd voluntarily tear his skin off if it'd cool him down, Derek was a shaking mess on the bed, and it was all Stiles could do to get him to drink small, slow sips of water, his head cradled against Stiles's skin and his throat raw like he'd gargled glass. Stiles's hands soothed and petted him, unafraid of him though he was plenty afraid for him. After a while, very human disciples of the Living Flame came, silently urging them from the room. Derek was borne up across Stiles's shoulders, his head spinning and his face ghastly pale. Stiles kept up a steady stream of gentle words beside him, soft and encouraging as he led Derek the route the devotees were taking them down, the heat of movement making Derek want to scream because he was burning from the inside out. They were both only half-clothed, and Stiles's skin was actually colder than it should have been; chilled from the gaping stone passageways they were making their way through, but he ached for the cold sting of the water Stiles had been coaxing into him, the betraying turn of his stomach as he'd swallow it. Stiles hushed him soothingly, his grip tightening even though they both were well aware Derek wouldn't die of this; that it'd pass with rest and less time than it would've if Stiles had been infected. Derek was simply thankful for small miracles that Stiles's temperature broke. 

They were led into a room full of pools, Stiles helping Derek to sit down against the cold tiles. Derek let his head lull back, looking up at Stiles while he tried to smile and ended up with a wince, "You know it's really not fair that you look like you've one foot in the grave, and you still are five times more attractive than I am." Stiles laughed, crouching down and pushing Derek's sweaty hair from his forehead. Derek leaned unashamedly into the touch, because Stiles's hands felt like they performed miracles with every careful sweep of his fingers. Derek hadn't even felt a pull this strong when it had been Midir: The wounds inflicted from Katarina-- _Kate_ \--had been fresh, and he'd suddenly been thrown into the path of this headstrong, defiant slave from his mother's lands, so ill-fitted to Greece. It'd been a lesson in how fluid the future could be, and if Derek had thought that he'd never be able to love--to _feel_ \--again, the press of Stiles's palm over his brow and the worried determination in his eyes was enough to paint a different ending to the story than a wolf so damaged he removed himself from the pack. Midir had been goodness and gentility and a fragile sweetness that no earnesty could stand up to; Stiles was perseverance and hope, and a fierce strive for anything he set his mind to. With Midir, Derek had _had_ to step in; to protect when the choice was go to war to earn his freedom or let his master make a bed-mate of him. With Stiles, Derek would never have had to step in like that. Stiles wasn't bloodthirsty or brutal, but Derek knew in his gut that Stiles's gentle heart didn't lord him completely. Stiles would fight; Stiles would maim; Stiles would kill, if it came to it. That first instance: That mercy with Harris...it'd reminded him of Midir, but he should have seen it when Stiles downed that vial that Stiles was much, much more than Midir had been. 

Stiles's head turned, as if he'd sensed something, though Derek couldn't, "I don't think we're safe here." Stiles breathed through unmoving lips. Derek glanced around at how abandoned they'd been, his senses telling him nothing, though his instincts picked up on Stiles's carefully honed and tightly controlled distress. "I'm going to pick you up again, and we're going to go for the door behind me. And before you get a damn idea in your head: no, I will not run." Stiles hefted Derek's weight as if he wasn't on shaky legs as well, turning and going for the other door. Derek picked up the fall of bodies, and then the stink of fear; the smell of that almost overpowering the scent of the creature. 

"Stiles! Jackson's here!" Derek barked out. Behind them, the door they'd walked through smashed inwards, and both Stiles and Derek jerked with the sound. Derek struggled through the stars whiting out his vision as he pushed himself to move faster, to get Stiles out of danger. He couldn't move fast enough. Derek felt the claws pierce through the skin on the back of his neck as he used every bit of strength he had left to push Stiles forward still, toppling sideways without Stiles's support into the pool of fragrant water, sinking immediately as the venom burned with the poison in his veins. Derek closed his eyes, hoping Stiles got out, even as the burn turned into something he wasn't sure he could heal from. He didn't see so much as feel Stiles leap in after him, dragging him to the surface. They both gasped in a breath, and Derek could see a monk's maimed body half-spilled through the door, the monster hissing from the edge of the healing spring. Stiles pulled Derek back against him, keeping them both afloat, and Derek got a glimpse of jet-black eyes again, the hackle-raising zing of magic through the air setting Derek's teeth on edge as he found he couldn't move already. "What are you doing?" He ground out, voice like shred glass. 

"You'll go into one of those nifty god-comas if you try to heal too much at once. Drowning, poison, and venom? Too much." Stiles told him breathlessly, "As for what I'm doing to keep our scaly friend at bay? Magic." 

"Stiles! _You're_ still recovering from the poison!" 

Stiles grit his teeth, and Derek would've been able to hear it, even without enhanced senses, "I told you. I'm not leaving you. Especially not now that I managed to find you." 

Stiles's body worked around his, his breathing harsh and panting in his ear as he forced himself to keep the both of them up. Derek felt himself spiral into panic every time Stiles's breathing caught or his strength seemed to wane. "Stiles, I'll _survive_." 

"You'll slip into a coma while your body tries to go haywire in an attempt to heal. You'll survive, sure, but there is no telling how long…" Stiles dipped down in the water, exhausted, before he ferociously renewed his efforts, "there's no telling how long you'll be out. Jackson lost almost a year after a car crash. How long before you run yourself ragged enough to lose decades? Centuries?!"

The black of Stiles's eyes didn't falter; Stiles's rage written instead in his cheeks and his grip, along the hard line of his jaw. Derek knew he was right, too. Knew that he'd been forcing himself to stay conscious while the fever worked its way through him more because he refused to run the risk of being too weak to force himself out of slipping fully off. His body needed it. He was recovering still from the cave, let alone the constant battery of shock and injury. Stiles was right about how long he had to lose if he didn't see the poison and the venom out of his system: if he didn't find a way to build himself back up enough to fight. And, all over again, it was thrown into a stark relief that Stiles didn't have that long to lose. A year wasn't even guaranteed with the way Stiles lived. Stiles was breakable, he was human, and there was nothing really that Derek could do about it beyond hope that there was a way to change that, and that Stiles would want to. 

It was hours before the water changed around them; the sensation like the pain of the venom and poison was being siphoned off from him, lulling him closer and closer to sleep. From the side of the pool, the monster roared, a flowing, willowy form taking shape above the water. The Irish goddess of water and healing smiled down on them both, her eyes a glorious blue and her skin the colour of a whitecap, "I owed you one, my dear." She murmured, touching Stiles's head. For the barest moment, the jet of his eyes gave way to a deep, electric blue, rolling up in Stiles's head as they closed, Stiles's body going slack. Derek panicked through the thick haze of the water's healing tendrils, half-drugged as he watched Conventina press a kiss to his own forehead, and the fog overtook him completely. 

 

~

 

" _Al?!_ " Derek woke to Stiles's disbelieving shout, jerking beside him, back on their bed. A twitching, nervous-looking fellow was hunched over next to Stiles, his hands resting together as if in prayer and his whole body stuttering and moving as if he couldn't control it. 

He felt healed, completely rested and restored, though the faint, silvery, almost watery chain linking his wrist to Stiles's didn't bode well; the metal pulsing with magic that made him feel like it was the epicentre of his life force. Stiles moved, and the chain grew longer to accommodate it. He must've made a sound at that, because Stiles turned back to him, eyes wide. Stiles's hands weren't even shaking as he helped Derek to sit up and pulled him over to be draped over his side, "What happened?" 

"Scott pulled through for us. He and Lydia started up the Stiles-is-missing phone tree among the gods that owe us. Conventina found us and healed us. Also somehow managed to scare away Jackson. Not clear on that part." Stiles pushed his hand through Derek's hair tenderly, half-hugging, "Ten devotees were maimed and/or killed. We were given a guard by Conventina because she loves me, so don't worry about the water sprites. And I'd like to introduce Al...the man who doesn't seem to remember he's Bobby Finstock."

Stiles's eyes were verging on analytical as they watched the other man, leaning into Derek unconsciously while he watched the man twitch. Derek could smell the underlying panic and desperation that came with lunacy; that came with being lost inside your own head. "Injury?" 

"Possibly. More likely he was cursed." Stiles leaned his head back, the line of his neck tense, and Derek responded immediately, moving his hand to massage Stiles's temples. Stiles hummed low, his eyes drifting closed and a small smile tugging at his mouth, "I have a very, very big headache. But I'm alive. And so are you. So we need to get doing." Stiles smiled, slow and sweet, kissing him. He turned back to the madman, the care and kindness in his eyes tempered with the kind of look Derek would expect to see in the eyes of a doctor sussing out a diagnosis. 

"And by 'doing', you mean that you're going to try to break the curse on him, aren't you?" Derek tried to keep the groan out of his voice. He really did. 

Stiles threw a smirk over his shoulder, his nose crinkling, "See? Getting to know me already." He teased, slipping to the edge of the bed and turning his full attentions to Al. Derek looked down at the chain linking them, touching it carefully, the soft sound his fingers made against it like a siren's song. The sound wrapped around him, centring and balancing. He was connected to Stiles, and it brought him a sense of peace unlike any he'd been graced with before. 

Derek found the ghostly monk he'd first woken to, barely glancing back at Stiles before he went to the old man, his tension obvious, though the monk was smiling at him, if a little sadly, "You and your mate came in an airplane that crashed a few miles from where we found you, did you not?" Derek nodded, blinking, "It seems that there was a stowaway. That monster that attacked us. It wanted you and your mate." 

Derek knew, from years of territories and treaties and keeping peace in places where there was no law beyond someone larger stepping in, that their time of having a sanctuary here just became dwindling, "I'm sorry. We didn't know…"

The monk held up a hand, "With a predator like that, not even you could. In fact, I believe it was created for the very purpose to keep you from sensing it. Its created to kill, and to not be stopped so easily. Your mate is going to help one of our more lost causes, and for that, we're grateful. We don't blame either of you for the attack, because you both would've easily been victims of it had your friends not rallied to find you. But, that said, I need to speak to you. And you may not like what I have to tell you." 

 

~

 

With Kate, it had been rough and violent under a veneer of damsel-fragility. Derek had had enough time with Laura at his side and the Hales at his back to know, more or less, what love and trust felt like. He hadn't known how easily it was clouded, though; hadn't realized how simply it was faked. He'd let himself be seduced when Kate had appeared one day, a meek and delicate flower of a girl. He'd felt off when she'd clung him away from his family; hadn't liked it when what she'd wanted was tryst after tryst with him behind his family's back; and some part of him had known it wasn't right when he asked her to be his alone, and she'd cooed that what they'd had was so much more thrilling. She'd taught him never to say no. Ingrained it into him so deeply there was probably still a scar; so deeply that, years later, a new pack under his wing and the challenge to surprise him a taunt to show them just how failing they were at their ability to protect themselves, Erica had kissed him, and he hadn't been able to stop himself from kissing back, just for a moment, before he'd thrown her away and tried to get the taste of her off his mouth. She hadn't tasted like Kate, but it'd still been enough to turn his stomach. 

Midir had been a chance meeting, and he'd sensed it, had known from the way his chest burst back into life like a waterfall breaking through ice that Midir was going to be the one that had been foretold of; that he was going to be precious and special. It hadn't been love at first sight. Midir was cheeky and defiant and willful, just like Stiles, and he topped it off with the kind of determination that saw Derek melting back out of the shell he'd put himself in. He'd been infuriating and he'd rocked Derek to his core. But he'd been weaker than he'd let anyone know; fragile and breakable in a way that meant that when it came time to it--when there was no other choice but to have him become a fighter or a love-slave to a brutal and powerful man (and never had Derek hated the fact he wasn't born into a defined belief system more, that he couldn't use that to overpower the bastard into giving up Midir from his slavery), Derek had turned to the only people who'd ever shown him kindness. Aphrodite had had her husband forge his ring; Eros had helped her cast the spell over the metal, so that when their love was consummated, his powers would be transmuted through the ring, and the ring would only empower the one that belonged in his heart. 

The first time, sex had been the flaming arrow; and the second, it had been the cursed-to-recoil bow. It was all he'd known; and it wouldn't--couldn't be kept that way. He needed to stop seeing it as a weapon. Not with Stiles and all his cunning, all his power; Stiles didn't want or need him--them--to be a weapon. 

He'd have a lot to learn, if he intended to take Stiles for his, the old man had said. And it'd drawn him up short. This was destiny; it was prophecy and preordination, it wasn't a choice. 

The monk stared at him with unfathomable eyes, "If you truly believe that, then you needn't try to learn, because you never will." 

Derek had been left alone then, with his thoughts and a glowing, silvery-blue chain linking his wrist to Stiles's, singing with life every time he touched it. 

 

~

 

Derek walked into the room to the cloying, heady scent of sandalwood and cinnamon; too sweet and strong for comfort, and he knew why the moment he saw Stiles's eyes had turned jet black once more. 

All magic had a scent that was the identifier of the user. Stiles's was cinnamon and sandalwood; Peter's had been cotton and lemons, and Derek tamped down on the memory of how rotted that smell had become when Peter had stolen Derek's wolf from him. 

Finstock's head was between Stiles's glowing palms, a pulsing aura of sickly, bruise-like purple hovering around them as Stiles muscled his way through the magic. Derek could smell the resolution and strength coming off of Stiles in waves as sweat began to bead on his skin with the exertion of the magic. 

Derek took a moment, studying it. Stiles was younger than Finstock for certain, though it was hard to tell with Greenberg. He'd been barely past childhood when he'd been in the army by the standards set in this day and age. He'd been Scott's age. For all Derek knew this world and his father to be capable of, picturing Stiles in the thick of it made his chest ache. This world was different, certainly; but he wasn't sure if it'd become more or less brutal. Having Stiles and Lydia believe in him had given him some sort of update on all that had gone on while he'd been in that wretched tomb of a city. Belief had been enough that he'd been able to send Boyd and Erica away to live their lives; belief, in the right hands, could move mountains--he'd seen it happen. He'd always believed in his destiny, believed it since Laura had told him the story, pulling him out from under the blood and pain and death that his parents had tried to smother him in. Laura would have liked Midir well enough, Derek always felt sure; but she would've loved Stiles. 

Laura had been far more cut out to lead than he, he'd always thought. She was kind and strong, and good and ruthless in equal enough measures to protect; to rally. She'd been stronger than him, he'd always felt. She would've been so much better at all of this than he was, and she probably would have been better than he was at knowing how to love Stiles; how to care for him without making him resent it; and how to handle the insanity that came with being in Stiles's life. Derek didn't know if he could withstand it. The scars on Stiles's skin alone turned his stomach, let alone the knowledge that there was so much more that hadn't scarred. Derek's instincts were screaming at him, but he would never be allowed to act on it. Stiles wouldn't let him take him away from this life, even if he had an alternative. "Stiles, stop." Derek barked as blood slowly oozed from Stiles's nose. Derek was wrapping his arm around Stiles in a heartbeat, pulling him back from the other man and checking him over for damage reflexively. 

His fragilely thin body pressed into Derek's, leeching warmth as he rested against his chest, too pale by half, but smiling, "I'm fine. Just a little worn." Stiles wiped away the blood, and Derek let him rest his forehead against Derek's bicep, slowly ebbing his pain away, the black veins of it reaching up Derek's forearms. He'd always liked that particular power of his. "Finstock? How you feelin', buddy?" 

"Bilinski, you fail at getting my memory back just like you failed at...well, shit…" Stiles laughed breathlessly, shaking his head. He climbed out from Derek's hold, Derek's hands wrapped around his arms carefully to support him, "Greenberg...shit, tell me Greenburg managed to get out of that hellhole on his--"

Derek had seen loss many times over. He's seen it in Laura's eyes; in Peter's. He'd seen men lose their minds; he'd seen them lose their lives. He knew, intimately, what it was like to lose the person you cared about most, and for it to be your fault. Finstock withdrew, pale, staring at the ground between his feet and Stiles's. "I'm sorry, Bobby--"

"Al!" Finstock roared, and there was the wounded, grieved part of insanity, "I...I'm not Bobby Finstock. Bilinski, you have to take the memories _back_. Take them away again. If you don't...If you don't, I will…"

Stiles held up his hands, soothing, "Al, Dirk--"

"You start telling me what that bastard would want, Bilinski, I will fuck you up!"

Stiles cocked an eyebrow, pursing his lips, "Then tell me what did this first off, and I'll take the memory back." 

Finstock snapped his mouth closed, and Derek was oddly reminded of a ferret. "You remember how the old man used to say the jungle wouldn't let him go? And we all thought it meant that he'd slept with some witchdoctor in the jungle during one of his sprees and the old bastard got himself hexed to never die?" 

"Yeah. I distinctly remember winning the bet on whether or not he could die after he blew up." Stiles muttered, his heart telling Derek that that was a lie. 

"The jungle wouldn't let him go, Bilinski. Meaning, he was trapped here."

"He's not trapped here anymore, though, is he?" Stiles groaned. Finstock shook his head, "So, what, he took your memories from you--"

"He tried to possess me." Finstock corrected, pulling down a shoulder of his shirt to reveal five burn marks the size of fingers, fitted around his heart. 

Stiles went very still, his eyes wide and distant, "You and I were the ones that dealt with that ghost problem in Amsterdam…"

"We put it in our reports that one of the ghosts managed to hitch a ride in your meatsuit, we just didn't mention that we figured out that there was a way to stop it from happening. He tried to force his way in, then he would've gotten my memories and my knowledge as well as my dashing good looks, but he couldn't. So, instead, he put his hands through my head and took my memory anyway." 

"And you're the second-best source of magical information on the planet."

"I'd know how to break whatever was keeping him in the jungle." 

"And he has broken it." Stiles mumbled, eyes still distant. "He's conjured something, too." Finstock leaned forward, looking interested, "Some kind of lizard creature. He's got an unwilling god turning into it." 

Finstock nodded, "A kamina. I've only ever heard wivestales, but they mostly centre on a "true love" that wasn't matching a soulmate." 

"The god is my soulmate's true love, so yeah…" 

Finstock's wide, still-lunatic eyes widened, "Then you're screwed on a level that doesn't even have rules of engagement." 

"You know more about ghosts than I do, Finstock." 

"I can't tell you how to put him in the ground, Stiles, it might not even be possible. As for the kamina, I don't know how...there's no way to stop it." Stiles glanced at Derek over his shoulder, laughing softly as Derek shrugged, signalling he'd told Stiles all he'd known already. 

"What's the old man become?" Stiles asked, sitting down a little unsteadily. 

"Oh, he's somewhere between ghost and demon, I'd think. I've never heard of anything that could wipe memory like that, have you?"

Stiles focused for a moment, his brow knitting, "Argent shouldn't be so powerful." 

"You beat him. With a _bomb_. He was already pretty powerful." 

Derek watched Stiles carefully; his eyes were flickering as if the ideas in his head were spread out in front of him, his lips quivering and breath catching as if he was a step away from speaking the words. "What if...what if there's a way that he could come back from the dead? More than possession, more than hopping into a meatsuit. He was blown to bits, but what if there's a way...some way...that he could reform his body? He's a vengeful kind of guy, we know that, so he'd want...he'd want me… _shit_!" Stiles burst up from the chair, his eyes wide, "I...I have to get to Deaton. There's something...there was a book while we were looking for the map to you...it detailed a ritual that would bring back a lost soul no matter what had happened. It's a life for a life with those things, always, so...so...what'd you wanna bet that he's not going to settle for any life but mine?" Derek growled, and Stiles's fingers were squeezing his arm gently before Finstock even looked up at him. "It's okay, we're not going to make it easy for him." Stiles murmured, "Finstock, he took your memories and then hid them from you…"

The man shrugged, "He didn't want me to remember him or you." 

"Needed surprise in the surprise attack, right...but he's not just after me. Before he died, he lost his position, which was everything to him, so to get proper vengeance, he'd have to take everything from me, too."

"And now you have tall, dark, and forehead to worry about as well as your precious Lydia. ...Which, I'm assuming this isn't Lydia." 

"No. He's Derek Hale." Stiles snorted, though there was a warmth in his name and Stiles was grinning at him, "I waxed _poetic_ about Lydia. You know she's a redhead. And also a female. Derek is clearly neither." 

"You, Bilinski, could turn a petite, feminine, sweet little nymph into a massive, hulking dude. Probably by accident." 

Stiles shrugged, "I'm talented, what can I say?" 

Finstock huffed like Stiles's talent had been a pain in the ass more times than was worth mentioning, and Derek bit down on a smile in response. "Take my memories away, Bilinski. You do that, and I may be of some use to you later. Otherwise, I'm not going to let myself make it." 

"Can you do it without dropping?" Derek asked quietly, trying not to sound concerned so much as disapproving. 

Stiles looked speculative, "Probably not. Not right now. Finstock, I'm going to need _help_."

Finstock's eyebrows nearly disappeared into his hairline, "If you think I'm calling her so she doesn't kill you, you are wrong. Death, I can do; but I'd like to have my balls attached to my body when I die." 

"Oh, please, you're the only one that she wouldn't turn into a goat and then skin." 

"A goat?" Finstock's voice was incredulous, and Stiles chuckled quietly. 

"Do you have any idea how hard it is to turn a full-grown man into a bunny? She would not expend that much energy on any of us, it's a waste." Stiles shot a small, devilish little smile at Finstock, leaning into Derek's hand on his shoulder, "I can't go to New Orleans to talk her down myself, I don't have time. He's not my top priority at the moment, and I need eyes on him. Hers are the best there are." 

Finstock raised an eyebrow, Derek feeling a shiver of unease running through him, "What is your top priority right now?"

Stiles's fingers covered Derek's, "Kate Argent." 

"I'm not getting caught up in it with the old man, but I'll give her a call. The Argents are all more trouble than they're worth." 

"Thank you." Stiles's voice was too heartfelt, and Derek couldn’t help feeling like he wasn't going to like whatever else they were getting into now. 

"Rest up, butthead. You're taking my memories away as soon as your Celtic little ass can manage it." Finstock grumbled. 

"I'd tell you I'm not Celtic, but I don't see the point in trying anymore. It's been years and you're still calling me Bilinski, even though I ended up as your commanding officer." 

"Suck it up, buttercup!" Finstock barked from the hall. Stiles laughed to himself, shaking his head and leaning back against Derek. 

"Mia Morrell was our sniper. Also, a hoodoo priestess of the old school down in New Orleans. She hates us all, but she'd kill for us if we asked her to." 

"Why does she hate you all?" 

Stiles laughed, "Far as I can tell? She hates everybody. She's got a problem with picking up the thoughts and feelings of those around her, and she generally has decided the human race as a whole isn't worth it." 

Derek's brow furrowed, "Then how can you trust her?"

Stiles's lips quirked, "Orders were to kill the man she'd fallen for. When it came to it, I didn't let her take the shot." Derek reached for Stiles's hand, and he smirked wryly, "Of course, she threatened me immediately that if I ever thought that that was doing her a favour, she'd shoot me in the balls with bullet laced with itching powder and leave me itching in the middle of the Sahara." 

"She sounds like Lydia." 

"No, actually, she's far more violent and scary than Lydia is. But don't tell Lydia that." Stiles closed his eyes, sniffing a little, and he whined in the back of his throat, opening his eyes and searching out tissues. Clotted blood came out of his nose when he blew it, Derek could smell the fresher hit of blood, and he stomped down on the urge to walk over and ease Stiles down, to take care of him in a very, very wolf-like way. Derek wasn't good at being a human; never had been. Laura, who could shift from human to wolf just like he could, would've been able to take care of Stiles in a human way, without getting bogged down. "Okay, so…" Stiles heaved a sigh once he felt he was able to properly breathe without the blood, "we're outside of Bangkok, I can get us back to Greece within a day, maybe two. Lydia and Scott know we're okay at the very least, and that we're on our way back. I need to recharge a little and I have an old friend I should drop in on. Plus, we need new clothes." 

Stiles rallied, and the trip into Bangkok allowed Derek to see Stiles in action, speaking easily in Thai, his eyes cunning and bright, the open manner of the way he interacted with people made him easy friends with anyone they came across. Derek and Stiles were in the back of a tuk-tuk when Stiles turned his head to rest his face in Derek's shoulder, "So I've never understood how you gods can understand any language." Stiles murmured in Irish, tracing patterns over Derek's hands. 

"It's a thing about belief. The more people that believe in us, the more people's lives we have some small measure in. We can touch people if they believe in us. When you and Lydia started believing, I gained the ability to understand every language you could, so I'd be able to hear you if you prayed or summoned me." The chain around their wrists grew brighter the closer together they were, and Derek had a hard time not looking at it, not wanting to call attention to something Stiles couldn't see. They arrived at the mansion of a silk magnate faster than Derek would've thought they would, an older man padding out, barefoot, to meet them. Derek watched in something akin to horror as Stiles let the old man poke, prod, and cajole him into being fitted for clothes, dread in his heart because facing the knee-high Edna had been enough to make him cringe. The tiny Thai women who swarmed him, though, were easy enough to get along with and, unlike Edna, though she was about as big around as his thigh, didn't give the impression they could wipe the floor with him. The man, Jim, had worked once or twice with Stiles in the thick of it, and Derek both quailed at the thought of knowing more life-threatening adventures that had almost taken Stiles before he'd met him, and was engulfed in curiosity, because Stiles's adventures seemed the best there were. They sat down to tea in brightly coloured silk suits, all three of them; Jim's eyes laughing with the guarded way Stiles complimented him on the efficiency of his tailors. 

"Stiles sent some banished fae to me a few years ago. They like to live in broken antiquities, and the Thai are very superstitious, so I have an almost-unlimited supply. They help make the suits, usually; though those were entirely created by them." Jim explained. 

"And you follow the traditions, like I told you?" Stiles confirmed. 

Jim laughed, "You tell me, you had to get up a flight of uneven stairs and step over three doorways to get here." 

Stiles looked appeased, turning to Derek, "Bad spirits--which I'm not saying the fae I sent are--but bad spirits can't follow you over a threshold like these, and don't like uneven steps. It's an Asian superstition, but it does work. I can't tell you how many times Lydia and I got caught in haunted houses with perfectly even steps. It's sickening." Stiles teased. 

Derek sat back, tilting his head slightly, "I'm going to ignore most of that but keep hold of the warning. I feel that's best for my sanity."

"Good." Jim laughed again. He took a draught of his drink, and looked at Stiles with tired, fond eyes, "Now, you've come here for a reason?" 

Stiles wrinkled his nose, but nodded, "Dirk Greenberg went down flying us here." Jim's eyebrows lifted in incredulity, and Stiles narrowed his eyes. 

"I got a call…just yesterday...of a dead body breathing again suddenly."

Stiles froze, his eyes wide, and Derek looked back and forth between them desperately, trying to put the pieces together. "How--?"

Stiles's features cleared like the sun breaking through a storm, and his eyes fell closed, "Dirk had pygmies believing he was a god…" 

Jim laughed, "You lot get into the weirdest goddamn scrapes…" 

"For the record, I had nothing to do with the pygmies: just the plane crash." 

Derek's eyes were still wide though, something that felt wrong curling in his head, something that wouldn't come to fruition, but sat there, waiting for the right time to sink its claws in. "Belief...turned him into a god…?" 

Jim nodded, eyes dancing, "We all had a very vicious argument years ago whether it would be possible. I seem to recall that Dirk and you sided yes?" Stiles nodded, smirking. 

"The pygmies would've feasted on him, or anyone else that convinced them that they were gods, and therefore they would've released their godliness. But Dirk escaped, died another way; an unnatural way." 

"Gave him the inability to lose his life in an unnatural way." 

Stiles's hand slid over Derek's, a look of mischief folding over his features. "I need to see him. There's someone he needs to be reunited with." 

Jim nodded easily, but there was still a shrewd look in his eyes, "What else is there?" 

Stiles leaned forwards, resting his forearms on his knees, "I need to speak to your fae, Jim. There's some old magic that I need sorted out for me." 

Jim nodded, "How likely is it that Gwen's going to try to kill you?" 

"Considering the last time I saw her, I'd just hog-tied her backwards with her own garrote wire? She's going to try to kill me." Stiles laughed. 

"Are you armed?" 

"Nope. Don't need to be." Jim raised his brows, Derek downright fuming. Stiles grinned at them both. "Trust me." 

"Why do I feel like I should start worrying I'm going to get shot?" Jim sighed, shaking his head as he went to fetch the fae they'd been talking about. 

Derek was starting to find himself of the opinion that knowing Stiles meant at one point or another, you would be shot, and he resolved never to ever point that pattern out. It'd only get him into trouble. The fairy in question was a waif, black hair shorn short, her features all so sharp that touching her would probably draw blood. Stiles smiled at her, something dark in his eyes that she sniffed at, snarling low enough that Derek knew he was the only one able to hear it. "Gwen, you're going to tell me a story...and then I might let you go." 

Gwen sneered at him, her quicksilver-coloured eyes turning to Derek appraisingly. It was the look of a person sizing up an opponent, and Derek knew it. She was going to try to strong arm her way out of this, and Stiles had let him stay because Derek was going to be the one putting her down. 

Stiles's grip on his wrist tightened, his head shaking minutely, and Derek couldn't parse it, "Derek has nothing to do with this at the moment, Gwen. This is you and me, just like it was in that forest. Only this time, you don't have your booby traps, and I don’t have my sword." 

"What story?" Gwen asked petulantly. 

"I have a ghost problem. And you and I both know that you have somewhere I can set that problem to rest for the time being." 

Gwen's demeanour completely changed, and Derek didn't know how he should've felt about that. She smiled, a slow, creeping smile that made him want to growl at her, because nothing good for Stiles could be attached to that smile, "You want to plant a lost soul in the Castle of the Fallen Kings?" She sounded ominously like she was going to burst into laughter, "The Castle could drain your ghost dry…" She trailed off. Derek didn't need her to say the words, though, it was gut instinct to know that what she wasn't saying was that it could give the ghost more power, too. Stiles rubbed his arm unconsciously, trying to get him to release the tension seeping into his muscles. Derek wanted to let it happen like he was Stiles's to order, and that scared him to his core. Derek fought it, keeping himself drawn and ready because the alternative wasn't a good idea. "I'm assuming you need a way to put him in the castle?" Stiles nodded, gaze unreadable, and Gwen looked almost gleeful as she laid out her instructions, Stiles's fingers curling against Derek's wrist as he listened carefully, calculating and careful.

Stiles wasn't happy when they climbed into the boat that was to take them back, laden with gifts from Jim, and Derek couldn't stop himself from pulling Stiles closer to him, holding on like he could protect him, "It'd take Gerard off the playing field." Stiles whispered, "And no one would be in danger from him. ...I couldn't leave him there, not permanently, but for the time being…" Stiles leaned into Derek, tucking his face down and breathing deep, "This isn't your fight." Stiles whispered, pulling away slightly, "I won't ask it to be. This is for me to deal with." 

"I figure I owe you at least one." Derek muttered, "So, yes: it is my fight." Stiles huffed, knocking their foreheads together for a moment, turning to Dirk where he was slumped in the bottom of the boat. "His heart rate's good, though he's not breathing like he'll wake up anytime soon. Judging by how fast he's healing, he'll be alright in a few days."

Stiles nodded distractedly, a smile forming on Derek's lips as he watched the ideas bounce around in his head until they turned into questions, "How is it that the Old Ones don't desiccate when they go into healing mode for too long?" 

"Belief, mostly. We get all our power from it. The more believers there are, the more power we have." Derek tensed again, his mind going to what it would mean if Ares actively tried to fight Derek himself. He would lose Stiles before he even had the chance, just by the difference in how much more believed in Ares had always been. 

Stiles had a calculating glint in his eye, his lower lip disappearing between his teeth as he stared into the distance. He reached for Derek's arm, bringing it across his body and letting his long fingers tangle in Derek's hair, blunt nails scratching through soothingly. It'd feel like Kate was touching him; indifferent and distant, but Stiles pressed into him, curled up, his mind spinning but his body taking and giving comfort. Derek touched the back of his neck, and where Kate would have reprimanded him for touching when he hadn't been told to, Stiles moved into it, sighing lightly as he pulled himself from his thoughts and into the moment, pressing his face into Derek's chest with a pitiful sound, "I'm going to send Gerard to the Castle; we're going to find Peter and get your wolf back; I'm going to kill Kate Argent; and then you and I are going back to Ireland...and from there, we can work it out." Stiles meant that they'd come to some sort of peace about the way he lived his life. He had no idea that Derek was thinking about getting out of this; about saying no. Kate would've taken the choice from him...and Derek had a feeling Stiles would kill himself giving Derek the choice; making sure that the choice was exactly how Derek wanted it, what Derek wanted. Derek couldn't help but to wonder if Stiles even considered it; now that he'd found him, if Stiles would consider that Derek wasn't the best man for him; wasn't really what he wanted. What Derek didn't realize was that he really didn't know at all what it was that Stiles would want.

The click of a gun cocking pulled Derek's senses as soon as they arrived at the temple, Stiles sprinting after him as he launched himself for the origin of the noise, leaving their things and Dirk's prone form in their wake as Stiles started yelling for someone to stop Finstock before he hurt himself, because there was a good chance they weren't going to make it. "Stop!" Stiles bellowed as they crashed through the door, "Stop, right now. He's not dead, you have to stop--"

"Don't lie to me, Bilinski! You're the one that told me in the first place. I know you want to try to convince me--"

"You know, there are a shortage of perfect mouths in the world...it'd be a shame to put a bullet through the roof of yours." Dirk grunted out, leaning heavily on Lydia as she struggled forwards. 

"Ew." Lydia and Stiles whined in unison, Stiles taking Dirk and then dipping him forwards into Finstock's arms while Lydia swayed a little, Derek's hand careful as he steadied her, "Stiles got you to wear a colour? Was there bribery involved?" Lydia panted, looking him over. She looked pale and rough around the edges, exhausted in the same way Stiles had been. Stiles stepped back to them, letting Lydia crumble into his arms as he ushered them out. Derek wished he didn't have to hear what Finstock and Dirk were saying to each other, even with the door closed firmly behind them. Lydia's hands were shaking, though, and she was having trouble keeping herself up. "I hate teleporting." She muttered weakly as Stiles shuffled them all along to his and Derek's room, putting her on the bed carefully and helping her pull the blankets up.

"Who'd you go with?" Stiles asked, and Derek put it together that they were walking about hitching a ride through time and space with a god. It was one of the worst ideas Derek had ever heard, and he was perversely thankful he didn't have the juice to pull it off, because the thought of risking Stiles's neck like that made him queasy. 

"Artemis. She had to go back, though. Allison and she are still training." Lydia murmured, pressing her skin against the cool pillows. Stiles's brow furrowed as the borrowed shirt of his she was clothed in hung heavily at the pocket. With one blindingly fast slight of hand, Stiles had pickpocketed her, tucking the contents away in his own pocket so she wouldn't roll onto them. "I figured you were here...when there were reports of the storm...why was Dirk trying to crawl along after you guys by sheer force of will?" 

"Plane crash. Only reason he's still alive is because he turned into a god."

Lydia shot a perturbed, annoyed look over her shoulder at Stiles, "Sure, tell me something I'm burningly curious about just before I pass out." Stiles smirked, chuckling as he bent over and kissed her forehead sweetly. 

"I'll tell you again tomorrow." Derek followed as Stiles slipped out, walking back to their things and retrieving everything, "Yes, teleporting with a god is like chaining yourself to a comet. Neither of us do that usually. Neither of us particularly like the feeling." 

"But you have done it?" Derek hissed. 

"Don't get your knickers in a twist, I've done it twice, both times in order to save my own life. I've denied the opportunity on other life-threatening occasions because I was so desperate not to do it again that I came up with something else on the fly." 

Derek paused, lips pressing into a line as he narrowed his eyes, unsure whether or not he should be proud and relieved, or completely frustrated that Stiles got into these things. Stiles shook his head, grinning, and Derek snorted as he followed him again, trying to ignore the frankly alarming things Finstock was saying to Dirk behind the closed door as they passed. Stiles took one look at his face and shuddered, making Derek snort in laughter, "You do not want to know." 

"I feel bad that you do." Stiles moaned sympathetically. 

They spent the remainder of the day exploring the temple, Derek finding himself in awe of the extent to which Stiles was eager to learn anything and everything. It was actually fairly frightening to watch. 

They'd climbed to the very top of an inner chamber in the temple, high above the incense and candles flickering their warmth around an altar adorned with fire-like red and gold jewels, sitting close together on an outcrop as Stiles watched the shadows dance across the walls, "Derek," Stiles began, and cut himself off, sighing. Derek knew what was coming; and he knew he couldn't fight it. 

"Stiles, my instincts when it comes to you...will drive me insane...will drive you insane if I give in to them." 

"You want to protect me, and I'm not good at being protected…" 

"My first lover nearly killed me, and I listened to the second one die in agony because he wouldn't leave--"

Stiles stared at him, confused, until it dawned on him, "Kate…" he breathed, his face paling. 

"Everyone I've ever truly cared about has been killed. Brutally. If I wasn't meant to love you, Stiles, I couldn't."

Stiles recoiled, a look of glazed disgust passing over his features, "I knew it." Stiles breathed. He leapt out of the perch, landing lightly on the balls of his feet, before Derek even had a chance to blink, let alone figure out what that meant. The light connecting them was flickering like the candles. A shadow that had been flickering on the wall seemed to peel itself off the wall, and a roar was in Derek's throat, his claws and fangs running out, as it became the shape of a human--a woman--Kate, clapping something over Stiles's mouth and nose and stepping backwards into a portal like the one that had brought them here. Derek bounded from the perch directly into where the portal had been, and as the pure, suffocating darkness descended around him, the sound of Stiles's heartbeat going into a stuttering overdrive as he screamed, Derek knew he'd fucked up so badly there was almost no hope of fixing it. 

Kate had a Hand of Glory; an enchanted hand from a hanged man that was made into a light that only the holder could see. It was the only explanation as she moved in the darkness, Stiles's whimpers drawing at his sense of hearing and his distress thick in the scent of death that had hung in this underground Hell for too long. "What did you do to him?" Derek demanded, the chain of light that had locked around his wrist to Stiles's gone, abandoning him to the darkness. 

"Oh, it's a little hallucinogen. He's survived it before, though it was the cure to the poison I'd put in his veins, and he was in far better conditions than this." Kate hissed at him, "Do you have any idea how many witches I've had to kill to put this together? Running to Bangkok, now that was smart, almost threw a wrench in my plans, but that storm your boy cooked up! Whoo! Took three witches to bring it back down again, and then they were all too happy to help me out...well, after I did just a little more...convincing." 

"You opened...you opened a Triangle…"

"Covered the smell of the methane with the incense and smoke. Second Triangle I've had to open up to try to kill this little shit." He could hear her kick out, and hear her boot connect with Stiles's fragile, human chest. He started babbling, sobbing, into the darkness. 

The litany of words made Derek sick; Stiles was working himself into a panic in the darkness, that he was alone. That he'd always be alone, that he wasn't good for anything or anyone, and never would be. "Stiles!" Derek bellowed, his voice echoing off of the walls of the city that had once echoed with the screams of its people as fever and sickness overtook them. Kate kicked out into Stiles's side again in retribution for Derek's outburst, and the small part of him that she had managed to break quailed in response. The rest of him, though, roared in rage. 

Kate tsked, singsong and insane, and Derek could hear her come closer to him, but he wasn't a bat; he had no map for _where_. "Now, I'm going to go and find your missing half, Derek. Then, we're going to have some fun, like we should've the first time I trapped you here." He wasn't expecting the jolt; electricity flaring through his body, bringing him to his knees in pain. She closed cuffs around his wrists, yanking on the chain to bring him into a half-crouch, unable to fully stand or kneel. Stiles cries into the darkness, broken and lost like a child. 

"Stiles...Stiles, can you hear me?" 

Derek could smell the fear ratcheting up through him, and he felt sick, "D-Don't hurt me...please, don't hurt me. I know...I'm worthless...leave--everyone will leave. Leave me behind. Please, l know. They have to leave…'m not worth it." 

"Stiles!" Derek shouted, "Stiles, listen to me now!" Derek didn't know what to say; where to start. "Stiles, I will never leave you behind...Lydia, Scott...Danny and Artemis and every single goddamn person you've ever met...they love you. They would _never_ leave you, either. Stiles, do you hear me?" 

Stiles whimpered, and Derek ached to go and wrap around him. "...don't love _me_ ," Stiles whined, and it clicked for Derek.

"Stiles, I love you. I love you. When I said I couldn't, it wasn't because I don't like or want _you_. If it weren't you, I wouldn't be able to care about anyone or anything...not after losing so much. Stiles--" Derek cut himself off, watching as slowly, the light between their wrists began to curl itself into existence, connecting them again, casting a faint glow through the darkness, "Stiles, fight for me." 

It wasn't long before Kate was back, Peter roaring monstrously in her wake as she cackled gleefully. Stiles flinched, whimpering. Derek heard a light clink of something hitting the dusty, packed-earth floor of the city before Kate appeared, red eyes glowing behind her in the darkness. 

As the wolf, unable to handle it, Peter was feral, Derek knew. Peter was feral, and Stiles was laying there defenseless. A part of Derek that wasn't going mad with instinct knew that this was a part of Kate's plan in some way; knew it for damn certain as the chains simply dropped from his wrists, leaving him free to launch at Peter before he could reach Stiles. Derek snagged Stiles's shirt, flinging him backwards towards the wall Derek had been chained to with a tearing of fabric. Stiles collided with the wall, and something fell from him, but he wasn't hurt. Derek let out a roar of his own, swiping out at the red eyes glaring out from the blackness at him, the tiny light afforded him giving him a way to tell which way was up. 

A part of him was focussed on Stiles; on his heartbeat, his breathing. It was the only reason he was able to hear the small, mechanical click of a familiar music box, the sweet notes carrying out a moment before Stiles whimpered, and his own voice began to pour out in a lullaby that literally rocked the foundations beneath Derek. Dust and stone rattled and hissed from cracks as the city hummed with energy, Stiles's voice reverberating off the walls and back to them in a mournful harmony, the words tumbling from his lips as the long-dead city began to glow. Kate strode for him, avoiding Derek and Peter, murder in every movement. Stiles was still gone on the hallucinogen, his heartbeat uneven, his breathing harder than it should have been for the song, but he looked at Kate with cold, knowing determination. Derek was thrown against the wall of the house nearest them, seeing the monstrous, un-wolfly shape of Peter Hale with Derek's magic coursing through him clearly for the first time. Derek didn't know how Peter had taken the wolf; didn't know how to get it back. He was beginning to think he needn't care. Killing Peter, stopping him, would be enough; as much as he'd loved Peter. But Laura hadn't needed to be a casualty for Peter's revenge, and none of them were safe so long as he was so out of control on power that should never have been his. Derek didn't want to; he had to. When it came down to it, he had to. 

Kate had reached Stiles, was beating him, hissing things to him to drive him deeper into the fear, and Derek roared, fighting tenfold against Peter where he had him pinned, teeth nearly at his throat. 

Stiles jerked in Kate's grasp, something red shining in his fist as he reached up, taking two ends of a necklace and pressing the necklace into Kate's neck, kicking and flipping them over so that he pressed her into the ground, his makeshift garrote _burning_ into her throat. Stiles hit her as hard as he could, the force of the blow knocking her out as the Ruby of Helen slipped through his fingers, Stiles launching himself back away from her. 

Derek caught Peter under the ribs, shoving as hard as he could, until Peter was vaulted backwards, through the outer wall of another house, crumbling the ancient thing down onto him. 

Derek ran for Stiles, curling his hand around Stiles's neck and tilting his head up to look into his eyes. Stiles quivered under his touch, and his eyes travelled down to the chain of light linking them, his hand twisting and grasping it. Derek felt it like the first touch of sun to a plant that's withstood winter. Stiles's eyes cleared, his heartbeat steadying, and they both turned to look at Peter as he smashed through the debris, snarling harshly. "I'm not leaving you." Stiles mumbled before Derek could even tell him to run. 

"I love you." 

Stiles smirked, "Yeah, I kind of figured that out." Stiles's eyes turned flat black as he steadied himself to stand with a grip on Derek's shoulder. " _Lasair._ " The flame jumped to life on Peter's coat of fur when summoned. Kate choked, wheezing and gurgling around the blood, her eyes zeroing in on Stiles. Peter kept coming, and Derek leapt for him, getting himself between Stiles and Peter. Kate rolled to her feet, her fingers cutting into Stiles's arm like talons. He right hooked her as hard as he could, but the smell of Stiles's blood lit a fire in Derek's gut, pushed him harder. He'd get them out in any way he could. The flames danced along Peter's skin, sizzling and smoking though they wouldn't burn Derek. Stiles's eyes hadn't turned back, his power keeping the fire there; weakening Stiles the longer he kept it up and making him vulnerable. 

"Stiles, stop it." Derek barked out as Peter's claws bit into him from behind, a river of blood pouring from his mouth. Derek felt something crack inside him, nerves all over his body shrieking in agony. 

The raw power of Stiles's magic hung thick in the air when he caught sight of it, Stiles left open for a moment, just perfectly for Kate to strike. "I _broke_ him." Kate sneered as she smashed Stiles down into the ground as hard as she could, her grip on his shirt slicing into Stiles's chest beneath it with sharpened nails. Derek couldn't so much as close his eyes, face-down on the ground of the city, staring helplessly from where he was sprawled, paralyzed and broken. Peter turned on Kate and Stiles, but didn't go in for the kill immediately, "I took everything there was to take from him, indirectly or not, and when he's done with the dog, I'll kill you both." Kate hadn't noticed that Peter had incapacitated him--but Stiles had. His eyes lost the blackness, amber once more and glinting. He smiled slowly at Kate, his hand on her wrist. He slowly, deliberately, turned his gaze from her ugly, snarling features to the monster standing over Derek's prone body. 

"I was never much for gender inequalities, so I don't mind hitting you until you bleed, but I think Peter would rather." Stiles shoved, launching himself out of the way as Peter dove for her, teeth gnashing viciously. 

Stiles slipped his way over to Derek, and Derek could smell the fear and the desperation pouring off of him as he carefully moved the torn-through shirt to see what Peter had done. Derek couldn't see Stiles, but he could attune everything else to him, hearing his throat click as he bit back being sick. Derek knew it was bad; of course it was bad. He _couldn't move_. 

Stiles's breath started hitching and Derek wanted nothing more than to pick himself up and get Stiles out of there, clean him up and make sure whatever Kate had dosed him with was gone, but none of his limbs--not even his eyelids--responded to him. "I have to push...Fuck, god, okay--this is going to hurt, I'm so sorry." Derek felt a cold drip of something that was definitely not his blood, and the scent of tears managed to eek through the overpowering, choking fog of blood. Stiles's heart seemed to stop, and then Derek realized that what he was pushing was Derek's spinal chord, back into his body, and every nerve ending on Derek's body wailed bloody murder, more of Stiles's tears hitting him. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Stiles breathed, over and over, and Derek didn't need to see him or feel him to be able to tell he was shaking. He choked on blood as he tried to draw in a breath to speak, and Stiles whimpered, "I can't move you without your help, and I'm not leaving you here." Stiles's hand closed around Derek's he could feel his whole hand, up his arm, bursting into enraged pins and needles. Stiles planted himself between Derek and the fight, murmuring to Derek about what he knew to be going on, extrapolating from what he could see. "Kate's become some sort of harpy...she's been kept around too long, and all magic has a cost. I'm betting Ares didn't mention that to her." Derek heard more than felt Stiles touching his hair. Derek was so drained; so tired. There'd been so much already, and he'd pushed it too far to get here, he didn't know if he could stay conscious...and something told him Stiles knew that, too. "She's lost her beauty entirely." Stiles said, perfectly, crystalline clear even with Peter's growls and Kate's screeches. 

Kate's attention was on Stiles, insane and so pissed, for all of a second. Peter tore through her throat in that second. 

Derek needed to get Stiles to run. Needed to be able to fight; to be able to do something past lie there as Peter slowly shrank from the monster into what he'd looked like as a man, the process slow and painful. "You…" Peter wheezed, "must be _Stiles_." 

"You must be Peter." Stiles deadpanned, his heartbeat inhumanly steady considering the monster he was talking to--but that was Stiles; Derek knew, in an abstract way, that Stiles had seen monsters far worse. "Feel better now you've avenged your family?"

Peter sauntered closer until Derek couldn't quite keep his face in his line of sight, then crouched down so that he could, eyes glittering maliciously as he looked at Derek, broken and sprawled. "I haven't finished avenging them...that bitch's bloodline needs to go...and Derek's at the centre of it, as always." 

Stiles sighed, long-suffering and not the least bit interested, "Oh, please. He's not the one that painted the target on your family, is he? He didn't light the match--and had he not fallen for her, she still would've come for you; Ares still would've come for you." Stiles sneered, utterly fearless, "Derek's not the one who deserves to die." 

Peter growled lowly, his arm flashing out, grabbing and yanking Stiles to him, drawing him away from Derek, but still in view, Stiles's arm extended out and Peter's fangs elongated, hovering above his forearm, "The bite has the potential to kill if the recipient's not strong enough. What do you think, Derek? Poor little Midir wasn't: you think this one will be?" 

Stiles grit his teeth and practically snarled at Peter, struggling in his grip, winding up and hitting as hard as he could. 

It was more the spark of light than the flash of silver on Stiles's hand. The sound was enough to deafen even human ears; it left Derek's ringing as Stiles ran for him, skidding down onto his knees as he slipped Derek's ring off of his finger, replacing it on Derek's. Derek's power--his full power, wolf and all, coursed through him, hitting like a freight train. The wolf ripped and tore, the power healing but destroying at the same time as Peter turned on Stiles again, staggered and broken, half-burnt and bleeding. Peter lurched towards them, and Derek was up off the ground once again, the wolf taking over as his mate toppled to the ground behind him, knocked off balance. Peter's throat was under Derek's claws, blood spurting upwards as Peter died. Derek turned on Stiles, stalking towards him with glowing red eyes, just like Peter's, and it was all Stiles could do to keep from shrinking away, standing to pull him close instead. Stiles and Derek collapsed to the ground together, Stiles's hand wrapped tight enough in Derek's hair that the shaking wasn't an issue. Stiles pressed his face into Derek's chest, breathing deeply and steadily even if he couldn't manage to slow. 

Derek was still half-shifted; the wolf being returned to him having overpowered his control. Stiles had guessed that for a long time, Derek hadn't been human at all; running at as wolf, living as a wolf, and unconcerned with being remotely human because there was no one to be human for. It'd make sense that the wolf would be strong, that that absence of power would be catastrophic to Derek's foundations, but he'd never fully considered how entirely Derek was based in being the beast--how close he could come to losing himself over to it. He could only hang on and hope that Derek managed to come back. They slumped down to the ground curled up together, Stiles protected in the curl of Derek's body, "Derek, can you hear me?" Stiles pet through his hair, kissing his temple and holding on tight, "Derek, are you okay?" Stiles's grip on Derek was more to keep him steady in the awkward way Derek had wrapped around him and lifted him off the ground like it wasn't good enough for him to touch. Stiles didn't want to look down at the lake of blood Kate and Peter were creating. Still, Stiles shifted his arm enough--causing a low whine from Derek--to get his hand against the skin of Derek's back, where he'd been torn through and his spine had been broken. Stiles felt the sticky mess of drying blood, but Derek's bones, at least, had knit back together. "Derek?" Stiles nuzzled against his cheek, kissing his jaw, and Derek's muscles constricted around him, a low rumble vibrating through his chest. "Are you hurt anywhere else?" Stiles asked coaxingly, his voice light, but unyielding. Derek was more beast than man, his claws tearing through Stiles's shirt with just the movement of Stiles in his arms, rubbing the material against where Derek's hands rested on him. 

Derek pressed his face into Stiles's shoulder, whimpering as Stiles tugged lightly through his hair, murmuring to him. Stiles pressed his thumb into the shifted skin of his forehead, running his hands and fingers over Derek's features, watching as he slowly began to shift back under Stiles's touch.

Derek's eyes remained feral red, staring intensely into Stiles's features while he scented the air and roved of Stiles's body for wounds with his hands. Stiles pulled him in, hugging hard, "Derek, I'm safe, we both are...can you walk? Can you come with me?" Stiles didn't breathe as he shifted slightly, keeping in contact and close as he extricated himself from Derek's grasp, taking one of his hands and pulling Derek upright with him. Derek wasn't pleased, but he came, snarling as Stiles bent to retrieve the music box and the Ruby, too close to where Kate had fallen, her features twisted and ravaged with having cheated death for so long. Derek herded him away, growling lowly, and Stiles stumbled his way from the corpses, Derek's hands wrapped around him like vices, keeping him upright and moving him along. "Derek, I can walk on my own. This will go smoother if I walk on my own." Stiles grumbled, but did nothing to take Derek's hands away, reasonably sure it was safer if he didn't. Stiles's mind whirled out, wondering how the hell he could keep Derek from drawing attention to them once they reached the world outside. As they got nearer to the gate of the city, though, he realized he needn't have worried. Boyd, Erica, Isaac, and Scott were waiting for them; Boyd, Erica, and Isaac practically wriggling as Derek saw them and snarled, dragging Stiles backwards into his chest and curving slightly over him, his teeth elongating and his claws coming out. "Guys, back up!" Stiles barked, raising his hand to curl around Derek's grip on his arm, trying to ease him, "Derek, they won't hurt us...they're your pack." 

Scott looked like he wanted to launch himself for Stiles and Derek at the frantic tone in Stiles's voice, but Stiles scowled at him hard, a look that he'd learned (slowly...oh, so slowly) to obey after being glared at in that exact way approximately a thousand times before. "We could sense it when he got his powers back. How did you…?"

"Derek's ring. I slipped it off Derek before Peter grabbed me, and when I hit Peter wearing it, it pulled the wolf out of Peter." Stiles reached for Derek's hair, as much as he was able with Derek's hands trapping his upper arms to his sides. He breathed slow and easy, trying to exude that there wasn't a threat or a need for Derek to get between Stiles and Derek's own damn pack. "I'm not going to forgive you if you maim them, Derek; calm down." 

Erica and Boyd almost looked impressed by the firmness in Stiles's voice; Isaac looked terrified, and Scott let out a low, sub-sonic growl until Stiles glared at him and Erica reached out and smacked him over the back of the head. Derek's grip tightened for just a moment before releasing, and Stiles held still until Derek let out a soft huff that he took as a cue to move forward again. Erica offered her neck first, then Boyd and Isaac, showing their submission with Derek as Alpha, but it took a moment and a glare from Erica and Stiles both before Scott got with the program. Derek rumbled, but Stiles knew it wasn't a threat. He reached out, putting his hand in the middle of Derek's chest and stepping close. He pulled Derek into him, hooking his arm around Derek's back and walking with him as the Betas and Scott fell into line around them, though Derek didn't seem to know whether he wanted to lead them or let them out of his sight. Stiles kept a tight hold of his reactions; trying to assure Derek as much as possible with a steady heartbeat and calm, even breathing. If Derek was in his right mind, Stiles had no doubts about how entirely he'd be caught in the lie that the calm veneer really was. In all probability, Stiles would be in Derek's arms like a frightened child, choking down bile at the horror being dragged back out of the small, dark place he'd locked away years ago. The calm would last until he'd be in a position to let it go, though; it had to. He wasn't about to crack or crumble when Derek wasn't in his right mind and didn't have a real threat to fight against. Stiles kept a firmer and firmer grip on Derek as they made their way to the surface, his silence making Scott twitch more than anything else. He couldn't summon words, though: something about the hours of starvation, sleep deprivation, and agony made his tongue heavy--a part of him that Gerard had never managed to beat from his bones wanting to spill every secret he'd ever known just to rebel against it; and the part of him that had been broken, that was still broken, maybe more broken now, was working into a panic at the very thought of saying a word. Stiles realized what that was in nothing short of mortification that his silence almost felt like Gerard had finally won. Stiles choked, and Derek jerked in his arms, intense eyes turned on him and intense strength flaring with the instinct to protect. They'd reached the hotel lobby, and Stiles knew he was starting to lose it. Worse was that he didn't know how to stop. Derek started moving him along instead of the other way around, Isaac and Scott sprinting ahead of them to unlock Stiles's rooms before they reached them and open a direct path to the bedroom. 

Stiles caught just a glimpse of the war room that had taken over the sitting room before the door closed behind them, and he was being folded into a seat, Derek kneeling in front of him. Stiles was starting to find it hard to breathe, hiccoughing and sobbing with every other attempt to inhale, shaking as he rocked back and forth on the bed. Derek's hand curved around his cheek and neck, his other arm scooping him behind the knees until he was transferred from the bed to Derek's lap, tucked up under his chin and pressed into warmth that really helped even if it wasn't doing anything to subside the shaking. Derek wasn't growling, rumbling, or whining, but Stiles came to realize that he was talking softly through the ringing in Stiles's ears; the crushing wave of noise that made words incomprehensible, but he could still hear Derek's murmuring. He caught sight of light wrapped around Derek's wrist, trailing to his, and he'd thought that'd been a hallucination; his mind's version of the white rabbit, pulling him out of the drug and back into the real insanity. It faded from sight, though Stiles knew it was still there, as Derek's words began to surface, "...only you could think that anyone would leave you behind. You leave _no one_ behind; you rush off into… _insanity_ when you hear someone needs your help; and even when insanity is going to pull you to shreds, you keep going if only to make sure you don't lose who you've saved. You're infuriating, and an idiot, and so good and noble it makes me want to scream." Derek snarled lowly, his hand desperate as he clutched Stiles's head and tilted him for a kiss, long and slow and sweet. Stiles gasped, breaking through the blockage of anxiety until he could breathe again, clutching his hand in Derek's hair and pressing his face into Derek's throat. Derek got up a little unsteadily, his arm hooked under Stiles's knees as he headed for the bathroom, muttering under his breath. 

Derek set his legs down, half-holding him up while he used his freed arm to strip Stiles off, looking at the wounds, "Are you okay?" Stiles mumbled, his eyes heavy-lidded and his skin sallow. 

"I'm better than you seem to be." Derek replied darkly, his eyes flashing with ire that Stiles knew wasn't directed at him. "The wolf's under control for now. Something about my mate going into shock made it easier to fight through." Stiles asked for a kiss silently, nuzzling into his skin once Derek had taken his shirt off as well. 

"Turn around. I need to look at your back." 

"After we wash, Stiles. You won't be able to see anything until the blood's gone." 

"How do you feel?"

"Shaky." Derek admitted, Stiles tucked up in one arm to try to soothe the shaking while he drew the bath. "Those cuts on your...on your side, are they closed?"

"I don't think so." Stiles breathed as Derek adjusted his grip to look at the wounds. "In my pack...there're some salts to help heal. I'll get them." Derek grunted, leaving him for a moment to do it himself. 

Stiles twisted to look at the marks Derek was talking about in the bathroom mirror, the scratches red and angry over his pale skin. Derek's arms wrapped around him, his mouth tucked behind his shoulder, words muffled into his skin, "You're really not safe with me." 

Stiles watched as Derek's claws extended and retracted where his hand rested against Stiles's chest: Derek's control wasn't a sure thing, not while he was weakened--he could go as wild as Peter if he was pushed much farther...and they both knew there would be that push. Stiles leaned into him, meeting his eyes fearlessly in their reflection, raising his chin in defiance. "Worth it."

**Author's Note:**

> 16/6/2015 Update:  
> Hello, there! 
> 
> I don't know if this is getting looked at a whole lot anymore, but I wanted to start here with the news I have: 
> 
> There was a lot of mixed reviews on this piece, but one that I overwhelmingly heard was that it ought to be a fiction all its own, not just a fanfic. Well, my freaky darlings, it's only taken me an excruciatingly long time, but it's finally ready. A very good friend of mine is currently in the process of helping me out to come up with a cover, but when it is done, I will be publishing my first novel, This Time, It Wasn't The End, on Kindle. I've changed and added and taken away, and it's only the beginning of this little world I can see, but if you liked the fanfic version, I'd really appreciate it if you'd give the full novel a try when it comes out.
> 
> Update 26/07/2016:  
> I've finished an original work based off of this fic (yes, loosely): It's now available from Kindle at https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01J4DVCXC  
> If you liked this, I hope you'll enjoy that. And even if you don't: thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for reading.


End file.
